UC-NRLF 


B    30V    776 


GIFT  or 

L.    A.   Williams 


THE  SIXTH  READER  AND  SPEAKER, 


THE 

FRANKLIN 

SIXTH   REi^DEB 

AND 

SPEAKER: 

CONSISTING  OP  EXTRACTS  IN  PROSE  AND  V^ltSE,  WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL 
AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES  OP  TQE  AUTHORS. 

BT 

GEORGE  S.  HILLARD  and  HOMER   B.  SPRAGUK 

WITH 

AN  INTRODUCTION  ON  ELOCUTION, 

By  prof.  SPRAGUE. 

WITH  NEW  AND  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

BREWER    AND     TILESTON 

1876. 


Cd 


to  Act  of  Congrefls,  In  <be  year  1874, 


BY     GEORGE    8.     IIILLARD, 
in  the  Ofllrc  kH  the  libtmiian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bicelow,  &  Co. 
Camdriuge. 


PREFACE. 


THE  Franklin  Sixth  Reader  and  Speaker  corresponds,  in 
the  grade  of  its  selections  and  in  many  other  essential 
respects,  with  "  Hillard's  First  Class  Reader,"  of  the  first  series, 
and  "  The  Sixth  Reader  "  of  the  one  which  followed,  and  is, 
like  those  publications,  intended  for  use  in  high  schools,  and 
for  the  most  atlvanced  classes  in  our  public  grammar  and  in 
private  schools.  While  the  main  object  in  its  compilation 
has  been  to  teach  the  art  of  good  reading,  both  by  furnish- 
ing a  choice  variety  of  selections  best  adapted  for  practice 
and  reading  exercises,  and  by  the  preparation  of  the  most 
complete  and  thorough  rhetorical  instructions  on  the  part 
of  its  authors  and  compilers,  it  has  also  been  their  design 
to  give  to  this  work  somewhat  more  of  an  elocutionary  char- 
acter than  either  of  its  predecessors. 

With  this  view  a  wide  range  of  selections  has  been  made, 
in  order  that  the  pupil  may  be  trained  to  give  proper  form  and 
expression  to  every  variety  of  style.  At  the  same  time,  with 
the  view  that  this  compilation  may  be  used  with  more  ad- 
vantage in  rhetorical  instruction,  it  will  be  found  to  contain 
a  larger  proportion  of  animated  and  declamatory  selections. 

The  compilers   have   endeavored  to  enable  their  youthful 


7frt945 


VI  PREFACE. 

readers  to  make  themselves  familiar  with  some  of  the  treas- 
ures of  English  and  American  literature,  so  far  as  to  do  so 
has  been  found  consistent  with  their  one  great  aim,  the  pre- 
paring a  good  reading-hook.  In  this  view  they  have  been 
constrained  to  retain  a  large  number  of  the  best  pieces  which 
have  been  found  so  acceptable  in  the  "  Sixth  Header."  These 
occupy  about  one  tliird   part   of  the  present  volume. 

The  compilers  have  retained  several  pieces  which  have 
long  been  familiar  to  all  persons  acquainted  with  English 
literature,  and  which  may  to  some  extent  be  pronounced 
hackneyed ;  such  as  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  Cowper's  "  Slavery,"  etc. 
But  the  permanent  popularity  of  such  pieces  is  due  to  their 
intrinsic  merit,  and  they  ought  not  to  be  displaced  to  make 
room  for  productions  which  are  only  commended  by  the 
gloss  of  novelty,  but  will  not  wear  so  well  as  those  on  which 
time* has  set  its  lasting  seal  of  approval.  In  retaining  these 
the  compilers  have  been  guided,  not  only  by  their  own  judg- 
ment, but  by  the  express  wishes  of  several  teachers  who  were 
desirous  that  selections  should  be  retained  which  have  so  well 
borne  the  sharp  test  of  daily  use. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  work  the  compilers  have  been 
aided  by  the  judgment  and  experience  of  many  practical 
teachers,  especially  several  masters  of  grammar  schools  in 
this  city,  whose  services  and  interest  are  gratefully  remem- 
bered. 


Boston,  September,  1874. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  Voice  in  Elocittton 13 

Force 13 

Volume 17 

Movement 20 

Pitch 24 

Slides 25 

Stress 28 

Quality 31 

Sugoestions  in  Regard  to  Vocal  Expression 36 

Gesture  in  Elocution     , 55 

I.   Gestures  of  Place 57 

II.   Imitative  Gestures 79 

III.  Emphatic  Gestures 92 

IV.  Conventional  Gestures 100 

V.   Gestures  of  actual  Performance 100 

Directions 100 


LESSONS   IN   PROSK 

1.     CONSTlTimONAL  OBLIGATIONS  OF  THE 

American  People JohnQuiney Adanis  103 

3.   The  Burning  op  Moscow 106 

6.  American  Battle-Flags Carl  Schurz      .     .117 

7.  The  Contrast;  or,  Peacf   rvT.  \V \v.  .     Athenaeum   .     .     .    123 

8.  The  Miseries  of  War  .                    .     .     Rtv.  RobeH  Hall  .   126 
11.   The  Slave-Tradb Webster  ....   136 

15.  Three  Pictures  of  Boston    ....    Edtoard  Everett     .  150 

16.  Death  and  Burial  of  Little  Nell  .     C/tarles  Dickens    .   154 
19.   Dialogue  from  Ivanhok Sir  IValter  Seott    .   164 


viii  CONTENTS. 

20.   The  Voyage Wasldvgtm  Irving  169 

22.  Opposition  to  iNDEPRVPFsn  IVebsUr  ....   177 

23.  Mr.  Adams's  REPL^  ...  "  ....  178 
25.    Eternity  of  God                    .  Rev.  Francis  W.  P.  Greenwood  184 

28.    Pearl  at  Play Nathaniel  UawUumu  191 

30.   Personal  Appearan'i-  avuCm  vkai  tku 

OP  Washington  Rev.  Jarcd  Sparks    201 

81.  Washington's  Genu.-> E.  P.  Whipple.     .  204 

83.  The  Character  of  Grattan  Sydney  Smith  .    .211 

84.  Finite  and  Infinite R.  C.  IVvUhrop    .  212 

36.   The  Reform  that  is  needei  Ucv.  Horace  Bushnell  215 

87.   Odligations  of  America  to  England  Everett    .    .    .    .217 

39.  God  IN  Nature Rev.  Edwin  H.  Chapin  222 

40.  The  White  Mountains                  .     .  Rtv.  T.  Starr  King  225 

43.  John  Hampden    ...  AlacaiUay    .     .     .  233 

44.  A  Taste  FOB  Reading      .     .  Oeorge  S.  Hillard .  237 

47.  Execution  OF  Mary,  Queen  i>^  .>'...- .  Lingard  .    .     .     .243 

48.  The  Trial  of  Warren  Hastings.  .  Macaulay  .  .  .248 
61.   Eulogy  on  O'Connkll IV.  H.  Seumrd     .   258 

54.  Incentives  to  Duty Sumner  ....   268 

55.  The  Western  Posts    .  Ames.    .                 272 

56.  The  Future  of  Ameru  a  H'cbster  .                 275 

60.  Kossuth Horace  Mann    .     .   285 

61.  True  Greatness Channing    .    .    .  288 

62.  The  Uses  op  the  Ocean Rev.  Leonard  Stcain  290 

65.   Joan  of  Arc Thomxis  Dc  Quincey  301 

68.  Voices  of  the  Dead Rev.  John  Cumming  310 

69.  The  Boston  Tea  Catastrophi             .  Thomas  Carlyle     .  314 

71.  The  Bible 320 

79.    Dangers  to  our  Republic    ....  Horace  Mann   .     .   345 

82.  American  Nationality Clwaie     ....  353 

85.  Around  Yosemite  Walls      ....  Clarence  King  .     .   363 

89.  Lafayette's  Visit  to  Ameiuca  in  1825  Josiah  Qiiincy  .     .  376 

90.  Personal  Influek"  i \V.R.W4lliams    .  379 

91.  Speech  on  the  American  W'ak  .  .  Lord  Chdt/uim .  .  382 
93.  The  Old  World  and  the  New  .  .  Horace  Greeley .  .  389 
98.   James  Otis Sumner  ....   398 

100.   Spa rtacus  to  the  Gladiators  .     .     .  Rev.  Elijah  Kellogg  402 

102.    Books E.  P.  JVhipple      .   411 

lOG.   The  Honored  Dead H.  }F.  Bcechcr      .   421 

107.  America  the  Old  World     ....  Louis  Agassiz  .     .   423 

108.  A  Tkibute  to  Massachusetts  .     .     .  Sumner  .     .     .     .   427 


CONTENTS.  ix 

109.   Napolbox  ;   or.    The   Man    of   thk 

Would Ralph  W.  Emerson  428 

112,  National  Injustice Tftcodore  Parker   .  436 

113.  Oliver  Cromwell Goldwin  Smith     .   438 

115.   My  Gajidbn  Acquaintance  .    .    .     .  JamM  RvmcU  Lovoell  441 


LESSONS   IN   POETRY. 


2.   To  a  Waterfowl. 


Wm.  C.  Bryant    .  105 


Campbell  .  .  .111 
Mrs.  A.  S.  Stephens  U2 
James  R.  Loioell  .  129 
ff.  W.  Longfdlou}  133 
Sir  fVaUer  ScoU   .   139 


4.  Ye  Mariners  of  England     . 

5.  The  PousH  Boy  ..... 
9.   Winter 

10.  The  Old  Clock  on  the  Staiius 

12.  The  Battle  of  Flodden  Field 

13.  •♦                "                •♦          {Concluded)  "            **           143 

14.  Henry  V.  before  the  Battle  of  Aoin- 

court Shakespeare.     .     .   147 

17.  The  Watcher  on  the  Tower    .     .    .  Cluirles  Maekxty     .  159 

18.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers Rev.  John  Pierponi  162 

21.   The  Fall  of  Poland Campbell     .    .    .173 

24.   Youth 182 

26.  The  good  griiat  Man Coleridge     .     .     .188 

27.  Slavery Cowpvr    ....   189 

29.   Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade      .     .  Tennyson     .     .     .  199 

32.    Paul  Reveue's  Ride Ixmgfdlow  .     .     .206 

35.   The  New  Year Tennyson     .     .     .214 

38.   Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni  s 

Exhibition,  London Horace  Smith   .     .  220 

41.  Abraham  Davenport John  O.  fFhiUier .  230 

42.  Richelieu's  Vindication Bulwer  ....  232 

45.    Bringing  our  Sheaves  with  us     .     .  Elizabeth  A kers     .  240 
40.  Lines  to  a  Child,  on  his  Voyage  to 

France,  to  meet  his  Father  .     .     Rev.  Henry  JFare,  Jr.  241 

49.   Charles  Sumner John  G.  WhiUier  .  253 

60.  June Lowell     ....  256 

52.  Hubert  and  Arthur Shakespeare.    .    .  262 

53.  Warren's  Address  before  the  Bat- 

tle OF  Bunker  Hill Pierpont .     .    .     .  267 

57.  The  Launching  of  the  Ship      .     .    .  Longfellow  .     .    .  277 

58.  Over  the  River Miss  Priest  .     .     .280 

59.  Hymn  in  the  Valley  of  Cuamouni   .  Coleridge     .     .    .  282 


X  CONTENTS. 

63.   Greece,  in  1809 Lard  Byron.     .     .  295 

04.    Thanatopsis Bryant    ....    298 

66.   On  the  Death  op  a  Child  .     .     .     .  Lowell    .                 305 

07.   The  Angels  of  Buena  Vwta    .     .     .  WhittUr                  307 

70.    Intimations  of  Immortautv  fTordaworlh     .    .817 

72.    William  Tell Sheridan  Knouhs     322 

78.   William  Tell  (Condttded) '♦  325 

74.  The  Battle  of  Naseby Maeanbi.t         .     .   329 

75.  The  Widow  of  Glencoe liitonn   ....   331 

76.  The  Antiquity  of  Freedom  lirmnt                    334 

77.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers.    .    .  Sj>rwuu                   337 

78.  W0L8EY  and  Cromwell  shakcsj^                  341 

80.  Hallowed  Ground  .     .  <'umptM:U                  347 

81.  The  Execution  of  MoNTKiME  .     .     .  Wm.  E.  Ayluun   .  850 

83.  The  Rising  in  1776 Thomas  B.  Ecad  .   857 

84.  God Derzhavin   ...    860 

86.  The  Conqueror's  Grave Bryant    ....   369 

87.  Song  of  the  Greeks Campbell     .     .     .371 

88.  Parental  Ode  to  my  Infant  Son     .  Hood .    .                 373 
92.  Alpine  Scenery Byron                     386 

94.  The  Hekitage Lowell     ....   391 

95.  Jenny  Lind's  Greetings  TO  America.  Bayard  Taylor     .  394 

96.  Hymn  of  Praise  by  Adam  akd  Eve  .  A/iUon    ....  395 

97.  Union  and  Liberty     ......  0.  ir.  Holmes.    .  397 

99.   The  Pauper's  Death-Bed    ....  Mrs.  C.  B.  SouUtey   401 

101.  Lochiel's  Warning.     ...  Campbell     ...   406 

102.  Extract  from  Rienzi  .     .     .  Miss  MUford    .     .   409 

104.  Elegy  writes  in  a  Country  liiiklh- 

YAUD Cfray 413 

105.  He  givrth  his  Beloved  Sleep      .     .  Mrs.  Browning     .   419 

110.  The  Lord  of  Butrago J.  O.  Lockhart      .   433 

111.  Milton  on  his  Blindne.ss     ....  Elisabeth  Lloyd    .    434 
114.   Burial  of  John  Quikcy  Adams    .     .  Pierpont ....   440 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Adams,  John  Quincy 
Agassiz,  Louis 
Akeiis,  Elizabeth 
Ames,  Fisheu. 
Anonymous 
Athen-eum 
Aytoun,  William  E. 
Heecher,  Henry  Ward 
Ukowninc,  Mrs. 
liitYANT,  William  C.     . 

lU'LWER         .... 

liusiiNELL,  Rev.  Horace 
Byron         .... 
Campbell,  Thomas 
Carlyle,  Thomas 
Chanxixg,  Rev.  William  E 
(iiAPiN,  Rev.  Edwin  H.    . 
Chatham,  Lord 
Choate,  Rufus  . 
Coleridge 

(.OWPER         .... 
De  Quin'cey,  Thomas    . 
Derzhavin  .... 
Emerson,  Ralph  W. 
Everett,  Edward 
CiRAY,  Thomas 
c,  KEEN  wood.  Rev.  F.  W.  P. 
(Jreeley,  Horace  . 
Hall,  Rev.  Robert   . 
H.vwthorxe,  Nathaniel 
Hill.\rd,  George  S.  . 
Holmes,  0.  W. 


Ill 


105 


173 


106. 


298, 


347, 


Paoi 

.     103 

423 

.     240 

272 

182,  320 

123 

331,  350 

421 

.     419 

334,  369 

.     232 

215 

295,  386 

371,  406 

.     314 

288 

.     223 

382 

.     353 

188,  282 

.     189 

301 

.     360 

428 

150,  217 

413 

.     184 

389 

.     124 

191 

.     237 

397 


xii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

Hood 373 

Kp.llooo,  Rev.  Elijah 402 

Kino,  Clarence 353 

Kino,  Rev.  Thomas  Starr 225 

Knowles,  Rev.  James  Sheridan 322,  325 

LiNOARD 243 

Lloyd,  Elizabeth 434 

Lockhart 433 

Longfellow,  Hp.nry  W 133,  2O6,  277 

Lowell.  Jamus  IUsskli 129,  256,  305,  391,  441 

Macaulay  248,  329 

Mackay,  <  159 

Mamk,  Hci  285,  345 

Milton   .  395 

MiTFORP,   ^li-^    .  408 

Parki  435 

PlER»  i    MS 162,  267,  440 

Priest,  Miss 280 

QUINCY,  JosiAH 376 

Read,  Thomas  B 357 

ScoTT,  Sir  Walter 139,  143,  164 

Seward,  Willl&m  H 258 

Shakespeare 147,  262,  341 

ScHURZ,  Carl 117 

Smith,  Goldwin 488 

Smith,  Horace 220 

Smith,  Sydney 211 

Southey,  Mrs. 401 

Sparks,  Ret.  Jared 201 

Sprague,  Charles 337 

Stephens,  Mrs. 112 

Sumner,  Charles 268,  398,  427 

Swain,  Rev.  Leonard 290 

Taylor,  Bayard 394 

Tennyson,  Alfred 199,  214 

Webster,  Daniel 136,  177,  178,  275 

W'HIpple,  E.  P 204,  410 

Whittier,  John  G 253,  307 

Williams,  Rev.  W.  R. 379 

AVinthrop,  Robert  C 212 

Wordsworth 317 


INTROPUOTION.    '- 


THE   VOICE    IN    ELOCUTION. 

**  There  is  in  souls  a  sympatliy  with  sounds." 

COWPEK. 

FORCE. 

Op  the  fourteen  vowel  sounds  in  our  language,  some  requiie 
for  their  enunciation  more  force  than  others.  Thus  the  sound 
of  a  as  in  ah,  and  that  of  o  as  in  oh,  are  louder  than  that  of 
oo  in  foot  or  i  in  fit.  So  the  diphthong  sound  ou  as  in  growl 
is  a  little  stronger  than  that  of  w  as  in  tune.  A  strong  sound 
is  naturally  lit  to  express  strength;  a  weak  one  to  express 
weakness.* 

A  similar  difference  exists  among  the  twenty-two  conso- 
nants. Thus  the  sounds  of  r,  gr,  h,  sir,  thr,  are  strong.  This 
fact  will  be  perceptible  in  the  articulation  of  rave,  rail,  rend, 
ripf  rear,  roar,  grapple,  grasp,  grind,  gripe,  groan,  growl, 
harsh,  haul,  horrid,  strain,  strangle,  strive,  stress,  strike,  strug- 
gk,  thrash,  thrill,  throw,  throb,  thrust,  throttle.  But  the  sound 
of  /  is  weak ;  as  in  lave,  lay,  lick,  linger,  lisp,  loll,  love,  luU, 

*  The  (iiffereiu  e  in  the  fitness  of  vowels  to  express  loud  or  soft  sounds  is 
seen  in  comparing  words  whose  consonants  are  the  same  or  nearly  so.  Tlie 
stronger  vowel  usually  expresses  the  londer  sound.  Compare  croak,  crack, 
and  the  obsolete  crick  ;  squall  and  squeal ;  snore  and  sneer ;  snort,  snuff, 
and  sniff ;  snarl  and  snivel.  Or  the  strong  vowel  expresses  greater  force. 
Compare  spout  and  apt/,  groan  and  ffrin,  strong  and  string,  master  and 
wtistrest,  thank  and  think,  ghire  and  glitter.  In  some  other  languages  ibis 
difference  is  more  |>erceptiblp  than  in  ours.  In  some  of  tlie  lani^ages  of  the 
Scythian  stock,  as  in  the  Magj-ar  and  the  Turkish,  the  heavy  vowels,  o,  o,  h, 
are  called  masculine ;  the  light,  e,  i,  o,  u,  feminine.  In  the  Mantchoo,  we 
find  ama  meaning  father,  erne  mother;  kaka  is  male,  keke  female;  awka 
father-in-law,  tinkf  mr>th<*r-iii-lnw  :  k-anhm  a  strong  sjiirit.  hmken  a  feeble 


14  TUF   ^rXTH    nKADKR. 

luU,  W  at  the  Ix'-uiiim-  ut  a  word  iuu-*  tijc  \\.  ik  -  iiiwl  .if 
oo  ;  as  in  w«a/lf,  warble^  wav€j  tveave^  welly  wind,  //„-/.  ,/,//,;//. 

Many  poet^  6^ve  sucpps^fUijy^. exerted  their  skill  in  selecting 
words  tho  ^QUIld ,  of  whict  iitly  expresses  the  loud  or  soft 
sounds  tliey  wish  to  derv'cihe  niid  the  strength  or  wetikness 
they  wish  to  paint     Th  ' '  rlton's  description  of  the  battle 

of  the  angels  :  — 

Now  storming  fury  rose. 
And  clamor  such  as  heard  in  heaven  till  now 
Was  never.     Arms  on  armor  clashing  brayed 
Horrible  discord. 

By  contrast  take  his  description  of  soft  music  :  — 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Lnp  me  in  soft  Lydian  aire 

^larried  to  immortal  verse  ; 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  link^  sweetness  long  drawn  out 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  molting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tic 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 

From  the  same  author  take  this  dcscripiiun  of  the  last 
exhibition  of  Samson's  tremendous  strength :  — 

As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  pillars, 

spirit.  In  tlie  Tartar- Turkish,  savmak  means  to  hate,  aevtnek  to  love ;  the 
former  being  the  stronger  emotion  with  a  barbarian !  In  the  Semitic  lan- 
guages, "  the  weaker  vowels  t  and  k  often  convey  a  less  active  meaning  as  com- 
pared with  the  strong  full  a,"  Thus,  in  the  Arabic,  **  The  three  consonants  q,  f, 
I,  form  a  root  which  conveys  the  idea  of  JcUlin^ ;  then  qatala  means  '  he 
killed,'  qiUila,  *  he  was  killed.'  Every  active  verb,  like  qatala,  has  its  corre- 
sponding passive,  qutUa,"  See  Whitney  on  "Language  and  the  Study  of 
Language,"  pp.  301,  302  ;  and  Preface  to  Wedgwood's  *'  Dictionary  of  Eng- 
lish Etymolog)'."  Compare  the  positive  indicative  Latin  sum,  es,  est,  sumiis, 
estis,  sunt,  I  am,  you  are,  he  is,  etc.,  with  the  contingent  subjunctive  sim,  sis, 
sit,  simus,  sitis,  sint,  I  may  be,  thou  mayst  be,  etc.  In  German,  danken 
is  to  thank  ;  denken,  to  think.    See  note,  p.  18. 


FXTRODUCTKjX.  10 

With  hoiTiljle  convulsion,  to  and  fro 

He  tugged,  lie  shook,  till  down  they  came  and  drew 

The  whole  roof  after  them  with  burst  of  thunder. 

Contrast  Cleopatra's  last  words  as  the  poisonous  serpent  at 
hor  breast  is  stinging  her  to  death.  (Shakespeare's  "  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,"  Act  V.  Sc.  2.) 

Charmias  (to  Cleopatra).  0  Eastern  star ! 

Cleopatra.  Peace!  peace! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Cu  ARM  IAN.  0,  break  !  0,  break  ! 

Cleopatra.  As  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  air,  as  gentle,  — 
O  Antony  !  —  Nay,  I  will  take  thee  too  :  — 

{Applying  another  asp  to  her  arm.) 
What  should  I  stay  —      {fali»  on  a  bed  and  dies.) 

•   Read  in  Shakespeare's  "  King  Henry  the  Fifth  "  the  monarch's 
animating  words  to  his  soldiers  at  the  siege  of  Harfleur :  — 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  cars. 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger  ! 

Stiflen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favored  rage  : 

Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 

Tiet  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 

Like  the  brass  cannon 

Now  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide  ; 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height !     On,  on,  you  noble  English  ! 

Cry  —  *'  Heaven  for  Hnny  !  England  :  and  Saint  George  !  " 
For  contrast  with  the  prece<ling,  read  Young's  description 
of  the  languid  lady  :  — 

The  languid  lady  next  appears  in  stare, 
Who  was  not  l»om  to  cany  her  own  weight ; 
She  lolls,  reels,  staggers,  till  some  foreign  aid 
To  her  own  stature  lifts  the  feeble  maid. 
Then,  if  ordained  to  so  s<'vere  a  doom, 
She  by  just  stages  journeys  round  the  room  ; 
But,  knowing  her  own  weakness,  she  des|mirs 
To  f^a\e  the  Alps  !  that  is,  ascend  the  stairs  I 


IG  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

**  My  fun,"  let  others  aay,  who  laugh  at  toil. 

••  Fan  —  hood  —  glore  —  acari;"  i»  her  luconic  atyle  ; 

And  that  is  spoke  with  aoch  a  dying  fall 

That  Iktty  rather  sees  than  hears  the  call. 

Again,  what  power  of  voice  is  sufficient  to  adequately  ex- 
press Satan's  mogniiicent  coll  to  his  millions  of  fallen  angel 
warriorB,  who  lay  stunned  on  the  fiery  flood  % 

He  called  so  loud  that  all  the  hcdlow  deep 

or  hell  resounded  :  *'  Princes  1  PotenUtes  ! 

Warriors  !  the  flower  of  hearen,  once  yours,  now  lost, 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 

Eternal  spirits :  or  hare  ye  chosen  this  place 

After  the  toil  of  hattle  to  repose 

Your  weaned  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven  ? 

Or  in  this  alyect  poitore  have  ye  sworn 

To  adore  the  Ckniqueror  ?  who  now  beholds 

Cherub  and  seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 

With  stuttered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 

His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven  gates  discern 

The  advantage,  and  descending  tread  us  down 

Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 

Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 

Awake,  arise ;  or  be  forever  fallen  !  " 

On  the  other  hand,  silence,  like  that  of  a  clear  midnight, 
requires  a  very  different  degree  of  force.  Thus,  in  Shelley's 
"Queen  Mab":  — 

How  beautiful  this  night !     The  balmiest  sigh 

Wliich  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear 

Wei-e  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon  vault, 

Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright. 

Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls. 

Seems  like  a  canopy  which  Love  has  sprearl 

To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills. 

Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 

Yon  daiksome  rocks  whence  icicles  depend, 

So  stainless  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  you  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  i^eace,  —  all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  ab«ive  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 
Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

From  the  foregoing  considerations  and  examples  we  evolve 
Force  as  an  element  of  vocal  expression  in  elocution ;  and  we 
see  that  loudness  and  energy  are  naturally  expressed  by  a 
louder  or  more  energetic  voice  than  feebleness,  languor,  or 
silence. 

How  loud  should  one  speak  or  read  1  Evidently  and  always, 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  without  the  slightest  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  audience.  Not  only  so,  but  one  should  commonly 
use  a  somewhat  greater  degree  of  force  than  this,  in  order  to 
allow  room  for  variation  of  the  voice  by  diminution. 

This  degree  of  force  which  is  recommended  for  all  ordinary 
occasions,  and  which  is  somewhat  above  the  degree  of  loudness 
that  would  naturally  be  used  in  conversation,  may  be  styled 
moderate  ;  a  higher  degree  may  be  termed  loiul  or  strong^  and 
a  lower,  soft^  sliyht^  or  weak. 

Strong  force  is  usually  appropriate  to  joy,  mirth,  distress, 
surprise,  scorn,  impatience,  and  remorse,  when  these  emotions 
are  powerful ;  also  to  anger,  rage,  defiance,  terror,  excited 
command,  and  energetic  decision.  Moderate  force  should  be 
used  when  no  special  reason  can  be  given  for  any  other. 
Slight  force  is  generally  used  in  tranquillity,  tenderness,  sor- 
row, pity,  quiet  contempt,  secrecy,  fear,  awe,  solemnity,  rever- 
ence, and  utter  despair. 

VOLUME. 

The  sounds  of  i  in  piV,  e  in  pet^  u  in  put^  a  in  pcU^  o  in 
potf  are  small.  Those  of  a  in  far,  o  in  foe,  a  in  folly  are 
larger.     The  sound  of  short  •  is  especially  adapted  to  express 


18  THE  SIXTIf  READER. 

littleness;  as  in  nit.jlit,  gi'i   '       '    '  ,  ;iii,|  a  multitude  of  other 
w<.nl.s.* 

We  read  in  Holy  Writ  of  "a  still  small  v- i, , ,"  anl  Shake- 
speare tells  us  of  a  "  big  manly  voice."  Which  of  these  is 
appropriate  to  the  following  extract  from  Tennyson  ] 

O  mighty-mouthed  inventor  of  hannonies  ! 
O  skilled  to  sing  of  time  and  eternity  ! 
God^fted  oigan  Toice  of  England, 
M  'nil,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages  I 

Whose  Titan  angela,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starred  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armoriee. 
Tower,  as  the  deep^omed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  1 

On  the  contrary,  what  volume  of  voice  bests  suits  the  follow- 
ing from  Poe  ? 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bt'lls,  silver  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melo<ly  foretdls  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tiukl*', 

In  the  icy  air  of  night  : 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  soem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystal]  t; 

*  Diminutive  nouns  are  usually  formed  by  some  termination  that  has  a 
short-sounding  vowel.  Thus  -hin  is  appended;  as  lambkin,  little  lamb  ;  or  -ock, 
as  hillock,  little  hill ;  or  -l«t,  as  streamlet,  little  stream ;  or  -ling,  as  darling 
(foT  dear-ling),  little  dear;  or -ie,  as  Willie,  little  Will ;  Annie,  little  Ann. 
Some  are  formed  by  a  change  of  vowel ;  as  tip  from  top  ;  chick  from  cock  ; 
kitten  fTom  cat.  Compare  spout  and  spit ;  Jloat^Jlout,Jleet,  md  Jlit.  The 
fitness  of  vowels  to  express  size  as  well  as  force  (see  note,  p.  13)  is  seen  in 
other  langnages.  Thus  in  Greek,  ^axpoi,  makros,  large;  but  iLuep6<;,  mikros, 
little  ;  'ApifT,  Ares,  god  of  war;  but  'Ept«,  Eris,  goddess  of  discord ;  Kpti^, 
krozo,  croak;  but  icpi^«,  krizo,  creak.  In  Latin,  the  masculine  ending  or  is 
changed  to  rix  for  the  feminine  ;  as  victor,  victrix.  In  the  German,  we  find 
hahn,  a  cock  ;  but  henne,  a  hen.  In  the  Danish  and  Swedish,  he  is  han, 
she  is  henne.  In  the  Irish,  many  masculine  nouns  are  changed  to  feminine 
by  the  insertion  of  the  light  vowel  t  after  the  radical  vowel.  These  examples 
and  those  in  the  note  on  page  13  show  that  a  correspondence  l^etween  sound 
and  sense,  in  the  matter  of  strength  and  of  size,  extends  to  the  very  roots 
of  language.     See  Excnrsus  in  Roehrig's  "  Shortest  Road  to  German." 


INTRODUCTION,  1^ 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 

From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

It  needs  no  argument  to  show  that  in  these  two  examples 
there  should  be  a  great  difference  in  the  size^  if  we  may  so 
speak,  or,  as  we  prefer  to  call  it,  the  volume^  of  the  voice.  We 
instinctively  open  the  mouth  wide  for  full  and  resonant  organ 
utterance  in  the  fonner,  and  we  narrow  the  vocal  aperture  for 
the  slight  yet  sharp  sounds  of  the  sleigh-bells  in  the  latler. 

By  analogy,  too,  WB  may  safely  infer  that  large  things  re- 
quire a  htfger  voice  than  small  things.  Contrast  Byron's  mag- 
nificent apostrophe  to  the  ocean  with  Bums's  exquisite  address 
to  a  mouse  :  — 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain. 

Wee  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie. 
Oh,  what  a  panic 's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  away  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 

Naturally,  when  one  would  enlarge  our  conceptions  of  an 
object,  he  uses  a  large  voice.     In  Tennyson's  "  Princess  "  we 

read  :  — 

The  great  organ  almost  burst  his  pipes, 
Groaning  for  power  and  rolling  through  the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder,  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms  ! 

How  different  the  voice  required  in  reading  Shakespeare's 
description  of  Queen  Mab ! 

She  is  the  fairies*  midwife,  and  she  comes. 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone 

On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman. 

Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 

Over  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 

Her  wagon  spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 


20  THE  SIXTH  liEADKTL 

Tlie  cover,  Ol   lin-  \^^llg^^  ul  j^iii>!Mm|HHTS  ; 

The  tmees,  of  the  smallest  spiditr's  web  ; 
The  collars,  of  the  tnoonshiue's  watery  beams  : 
Her  whip,  of  cricketii'  bone  ;  the  laj>h,  of  film  : 
Her  wagoner,  a  smidl  gray -coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  roand  little  worm 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  fiuger  of  a  maid. 

From  an  attentive  examination  of  such  i)assages,  wo  learn 
that  the  Volumk  of  the  voice  is  a  very  imiwrtant  element  of  ex- 
pression ;  and  that  the  vast,  the  sublime,  the  mighty,  require  a 
lai^r  voice  tlian  the  sroali,  the  delicate,  and  the  weak.  Here, 
too,  a  uiedium  or  moderate  volume,  as  it  allows  of  expansion 
or  contraction  to  suit  the  varying  needs  *of  expression,  is  best 
adapted  for  all  ordinary  passages.  Use  it,  therefore,  dvrhenever 
you  know  of  no  special  reason  for  any  other. 

Large  volume  is  usually  appropriate  to  joy,  rage,  defiance, 
command,  awe,  solemnity,  horror;  small  volume,  to  tranquillity, 
cheerfulness,  humor,  tenderness,  sorrow,  pity,  contempt,  malice, 
secrecy,  fear,  and  some  moods  of  remorse,  despair,  and  wonder. 

MOVEMENT. 

If  we  examine  carefully  the  vowel  sounds  with  reference  to 
the  time  required  to  utter  thetb,  we  shall  find  that  those  which 
w^e  have  characterized,  under  the  two  foregoing  heads,  as 
strong  and  large y  are  more  prolonged  than,  some  of  those  which 
we  have  designated  as  weak  and  little.  Contrast  the  time  of 
the  0  in  ho  with  the  time  of  the  o  in  hot ;  the  a  in  Iiall  with 
the  a  in  hat;  the  a  in  large  with  the  i  in  little.  Contrast 
9lf>pe  and  dip^  float  and  flit,  gloom^  gleam,  and  glim  (Scotch). 
Some  of  the  consonant  sounds  also  are  much  more  prolonged 
than  others.  Thus  the  ng  in  song  is  necessarily  longer  than 
tlio  t  in  sot.  Elementary  sounds,  then,  difier  in  the  rate  or 
time  of  utterance. 

Keeping  this  hint  in  mind,  what  element  of  vocal  expression 
do  we  discern  in  the  following  utterance  of  Hamlet,  when  in- 
formed by  the  ghost  in  reganl  to  his  father's  murder  ] 


INTRODUCTION-.  21 

Haste  me  to  know  it,  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation  or  the  thoughts  ..»  l<»\-.. 
May  sweep  to  my  i-evenge  ! 

l>y  way  of  contrast,  read  sympathetically  the  following  from 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  :  — 

Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed. 

In  the  utterance  of  these  two  examples  wo  find  ourselves 
spontaneously  and  almost  irresistibly  swayed  by  the  meaning. 
Before  we  are  aware,  our  voices  are  hurried  or  slackened,  as  if 
to  correspond  with  the  motion  described.  For  further  illus- 
tration, enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  two  following  extracts,  and 
then  read  them  with  feeling.     The  first  is  from  Cowper  :  — 

How  fleet  is  the  glance  of  the  njind  ! 
Comi>ai"ed  witli  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  temi)est  itself  lags  behind, 
The  swift-winged  arrows  of  light ! 

The  next  is  from  Milton  :  — 

Oft,  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-olF  euifew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore. 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar. 

Evidently  the  mind  and  the  tongue  adapt  their  movements 
to  the  movements  described.* 


•  Great  concentration  of  thought  requires  slow  utterance,  to  give  the  mind 
of  the  listener  time  to  take  in  the  meaning.  In  President  Lincoln's  first  in- 
augural message  he  condenses  a  great  deal  of  thought  into  very  few  words. 
Tlius  :   - 

"Can  alieus  make  treaties  eaiier  than  fHends  can  make  laws?  Can  treaties  be 
eororced  between  aliens  easier  than  laws  amnnt;  friends  ?  " 

In  St.  Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans  we  have,  — 

"  Now,  if  the  fall  of  them  lie  the  riches  of  the  workl,  and  the  diminishing  of  them 
the  riches  of  the  Gentiles,  how  much  more  their  fulneia  I " 

Landor  sajrs,  — 

"  Ijovf  ia  a  secondary  passion  with  thoee  who  love  moat :  a  primary  with  those  that 


22  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

We  aro  told  thai  the  Australian  savages  seek  to  givo  by 
repetition  the  impression  of  great  distance.     Thus,  — 

He  went  through  the  wood,  through  the  wood,  across  the  plain,  across 
the  plain,  acroas  the  plain,  by  the  sea,  by  the  sea,  by  the  sea,  by  the 
sea. 

In  like  manner  we  sometimes  repeat  for  the  same  reason. 
Thus,— 

Far,  lar  at  sea. 

But  oftener  we  convey  the  notion  of  distance  by  prolonging 

So  Enienon  rmniapiiw  a  great  <kal  of  meaning  into  the  following  stanxa : — 

Oh.  fteofdarij  Um  baqgbty  Digr 
FfUs  bte  blue  on  with  Bra  1 
One  BOfB  is  on  tba  ml^itj  aea. 
And  000  in  oar  (Iwin. 

So,  too,  the  following  from  Shakespeare :  — 

Love  goes  iowardi  love,  as  aehool-boya  tnm  thtir  books ; 
But  love  firom  love,  towards  school  with  heavy  looks. 

All  these  require  to  be  read  with  great  slowness,  so  that  the  full  meaning 
may  be  grasped. 

On  the  contrary,  whflM  the  thought  just  skims  the  surface,  a  rapid  move- 
ment may  be  proper.    Thus,  in  Tennyson's  "  Brook  Song  "  :  — 

I  wind  ^boot,  and  in  and  oat, 

With  hera  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  hera  and  there  a  losty  troat. 

And  here  and  there  a  graylii«. 
And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upou  lue  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  sUvery  watar-fateak 

Above  the  golden  gravel ; 
And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  forever. 


And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


At  the  outset  of  a  speech,  great  slowness  is  commonly  required  for  two 
reasons  :  first,  to  convey  to  the  audieDce  ideas  of  special  iniportance  ;  sec- 
ondly, because  the  miuds  of  the  listeners  are  not  yet  aroused  to  quick  action. 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

the  sound.     Read  the  following  lines,  prolonging  the  sound  of 
far  about  two  seconds,  and  obeervo  the  effect  on  the  mind  :  — 

For  I  dipt  into  the  fatore  far  as  human  eye  conld  see. 
So  seemed,  far  off,  the  flying  fiend. 

It  will  bo  observed  that  the  more  the  sound  is  prolonged 
the  greater  seems  tlie  distance.  While  the  voice  is  uttering 
the  words,  the  mind  traverses,  as  it  were,  the  space ;  or  half  im- 
agines itself  so  employed.  For  further  illustration,  note  the 
impression  conveyed  by  dwelling  one  or  two  seconds  on  each 
of  the  accented  sounds  that  are  capable  of  prolongation  in  the 
ibllowinji  stanza  from  Conder  :  — 


*o 


Beyond,  beyond  the  boundless  sea. 

Above  that  dome  of  sky, 
Further  than  thought  itself  can  flee, 

Thy  dwelling  is  on  high  ; 
Yet  dear  the  awful  thought  to  me. 

That  thou,  0  God,  art  nigh  ! 

We  have,  then,  by  this  examination,  evolved  Movement, 
often  called  raie^  or  time^  as  an  important  element  of  vocal 
expression. 

Excitement  of  all  kinds,  as  in  joy,  impatience,  rage,  terror, 
surprise,  quickens  the  pulse  and  the  utterance.  Emotions  that 
soothe,  hush,  repress,  or  subdue,  naturally  make  the  utterance 
slow ;  as  in  pity,  soitow,  awe,  reverence,  despair.  States  of 
mind  that  neither  excite  nor  depress  naturally  require  a  mod- 
erate movement  of  the  voice. 

As  in  the  case  of  force  and  votumcy  it  is  well  for  the  student 
to  adopt,  in  regard  to  movemfnt,  a  medium  between  extremes, 
in  reading  or  speaking  all  ordinary  passages.* 

*  The  mechanical  means  of  reading  or  speaking  slowly  are  twofold  :  first, 
by  pausing  long  between  septenoes,  words,  and  syllables  ;  secondly,  by  pro- 
longing the  soumls  that  are  capable  of  being  lengthened.  These  methods 
may  be  combined  in  the  slowest  passages. 


24  THE  SIXTH  READER. 


PITCH. 


The  sound  of  t  as  in  wit  is  produced  comparatively  liigh  in 
the  throat.  The  sound  of  u  as  in  murmur  is  produced  com- 
jmratively  low  in  the  thi-oat.  The  former  is  naturally  adopted 
to  express  what  is  clear  or  shrill ;  the  latter,  what  is  obscure 
or  deep  in  tone.  The  same  distinction  is  observable,  though 
to  a  less  extent,  between  a  in  at  and  a  in  all ;  also,  in  a  still 
slighter  degree,  between  a  in  afi  and  o  in  oh.  The  first  vowel 
in  each  of  these  pairs  is  uaturally  uttenMl  in  m  lltt]..  In.rli<.r  V«*v 
than  the  second. 

Shakespeare  speaks  uf  the  change  from  muiihood  to  old  age 
and  to  second  childhood,  when  the 

Big  manly  vi.l. 
Turning  to  childiuh  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  iu  his  sound. 

In  reading  these  lines,  a  highly  imaginative  person  finds  his 
utterance  involuntarily  rising  in  pitch  from  the  word  "  turn- 
ing" to  the  word  "whistles." 

For  there  is  an  unconscious  tendency  to  imitate  the  pitch 
of  sounds  which  we  describe.  We  speak  of  the  "  ear-piercing 
fife  "  iu  a  slightly  higher  key  than  we  use  when  we  mention 
"  the  deep,  dull  tambour's  beat."  We  recognize,  then,  Pitch, 
as  an  element  in  vocal  expression. 

In  Nature,  high  sounds  are  usually  produced  by  small  things  ; 
low,  by  things  relatively  large.  We  recognize,  and  in  some 
degree  express  unwittingly  by  the  voice,  this  difference  in  the 
following  stanzas  ;  the  first  from  Shelley's  "  Ode  to  a  Skylark," 
the  second  from  Mrs.  Sigourney's  "  Burial  of  Ashmun  "  :  — 

All  the  earth  and  air 
"With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams  and  heaven  is  overflowed  ! 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

The  hoarse  wave  murmured  low: 
The  distant  surges  roared. 
And  o'er  the  sea,  in  tones  of  woe, 
A  deep  response  was  poured. 

In  Nature,  high  sounds  are  usually  produced  by  rapid  mo- 
tions also ;  low,  by  relatively  slow  vibrations.  Contrast  the 
following,  as  you  read  them  sympathetically  :  — 

The  fine,  high,  penetrating,  musical  note  of  the  mosquito  is  produced 
by  an  inconceivably  swift  motion  of  the  insect's  wings. 

0,  it  *8  monstrous,  monstrous  ! 
Methought  the  billows  spoke  and  told  me  of  it, 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  ine,  and  the  thunder. 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe  of  nature. 
Pronounced  the  name  of  Prosper  ;  it  did  bass 
My  trespass.  Shakespeare. 

No  property  of  the  voice  is  more  wonderful  than  that  which 
this  analysis  brings  to  light.  The  Chinese  are  said  to  have 
less  than  five  hundred  radical  words ;  but,  by  a  simple  varia- 
tion of  the  musical  pitch,  they  are  enabled  to  express  by  these 
same  roots  many  thousands  of  meanings. 

The  famous  singer  Catalani  is  said  to  have  had  a  voice  of  the 
compass  of  three  octaves.     Ordinary  voices  have  about  two. 

A  high  pitch  is  appropriate  to  those  moods  in  which  the 
soul  goes  out  to  others ;  as  in  cheerfulness,  mirth,  joy,  distress, 
pity,  impatience,  rage,  defiance,  terror,  surprise.  A  low  pitch  is 
best  f«»r  those  in  which  the  soul  proudly  or  fearfully  retires 
within  itself;  as  in  malice,  awe,  solemnity,  reverence,  horror, 
despair.  The  pitch  of  voice  natural  for  each  person  is,  in  all 
(ordinary  cases,  the  one  to  be  used  by  him,  when  no  special 
reason  can  be  discovered  for  deviation. 

SLIDES. 

We  have  seen  that  many  vocal  sounds  are  capable  of  being 
prolonged.  During  sucli  pndongation  tlie  pitch  may  change. 
Theee  changes  are  called  Slides. 


26  THE  SIXTH   HEADER. 

In  asking,  for  the  sake  of  gaining  information,  a  question 
that  niiiy  be  answered  by  "  yes  "  or  "  no,"  there  is  an  upward 
slide.  Thus,  if  1  ask  earnestly  in  regard  to  an  incredible  re- 
port, "  Are  you  sure  f  "  there  is  a  long  upward  slide  on  the 
word  "sure."  If  you  reply  with  equal  earnestness  and  em- 
phasis, "  I  am  sure,"  there  is  clearly  a  downward  slide  on  the 
word  "  am."  * 

The  rising  slide  inquires ;  the  falling  asserts.t  The  word 
on  which  the  voice  rises  or  fedls  is  always  that  which  mainly 
expresses  the  sense  of  the  speaker.  Thus,  "  Is  a  candle  bi-ought 
forth  to  be  put  under  a  btishel,  or  under  a  bM  "i "  Here,  if  the 
voice  falls  on  6«/,  as  we  liave  indicated  by  the  accent,  an 
erroneous  meaning  is  conveyed,  amounting  to  a  virtual  asser- 

*  What  is  the  philosophy  of  these  upward  and  downward  slides  7  I  have 
found  no  explanation  ;  but  pertiaps  the  true  reason  for  the  rising  slide  when 
a  question  is  asked  for  information,  to  be  answered  by  "yes"  or  "no,"  is 
this  :  Tlie  mind  goes  out,  as  it  were,  and  the  voice  with  it,  towards  the  person 
of  whom  the  inquiry  is  made.  The  tendency  is  forth,  outward,  communica- 
tive ;  the  feeling  is  social,  tentative,  objective  ;  the  face  is  thrust  forward  ; 
the  voice  rises  in  the  throat  and  tends  to  the  lips.  On  the  contrary,  when 
one  asserts,  whether  affirmatively  or  n^atively,  the  slide  is  downwanl  on 
that  wonl  which  is  felt  by  the  speaker  to  mainly  convey  the  assertion.  This, 
perhaps,  is  because  the  mind  comes  back,  as  it  were,  from  without,  retires  with- 
in itself,  the  face  is  drawn  back,  and  the  voice  returns  inward  ;  the  soul  then 
thnists  out  no  feelers  ;  the  consciousness  of  self  is  prominent ;  the  attitude  of 
mind  is  subjective,  self-poised,  self-sufficient  Intense  earnestness,  when  one 
is  addressing  others  with  a  view  to  persuade,  not  to  drive  them,  will  cause 
the  emphatic  words  to  be  uttered  in  a  higher  key  than  the  unemphatic  ;  but 
if  one  is  soliloquizing,  intense  earnestness,  with  a  view  to  reassure  one's  self, 
causes  the  emphatic  wonls  to  be  uttered  in  a  lower  key.  This  subject 
deserves  further  investigation. 

t  The  reason  why  "  the  voice  falls  "  in  asking  a  question  that  is  not  to  be 
answered  by  "yes"  or  "no"  is,  because  such  questions  virtually  assert. 
Thus,  the  question,  "  How  many  prisoners  did  Washington  capture  at  Tren- 
ton ? "  asserts  that  he  did  capture  some.  So,  "  What  are  your  views  in 
r^ard  to  the  tariff  ?  "  implies  that  you  have  views  on  that  subject. 

The  preponderance  of  the  rising  slide  indicates  an  inquiring,  tentative, 
receptive,  sympathetic,  objective,  docile  frame  of  mind.  An  habitual  falling 
slide  is  characteristic  of  the  opposite  ;  namely,  a  dogmatic,  independent, 
didactic,  subjective,  self-assertive  disposition. 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

tion  that  a  candle  is  to  be  placed  under  a  bed  !  So  in  Patrick 
Henry's  inquiry,  "  When  shall  we  be  stronger  1  Will  it  be  the 
next  week,  or  the  next  yeiir]"  Here,  if  the  voice  should  slide 
down  on  y«ar,  the  meaning  would  be,  "  We  slujUi  be  stronger 
next  year."  No  such  intention  being  in  the  speaker's  mind, 
the  slide  should  be  upward  on  bed  and  on  year.  Hence  these 
two  words  are  wrongly  marked.  They  should  have  the  upward 
slide.  Again,  "  He  that  hath  no  m6ney,  let  him  come."  Here 
the  falling  slide  on  money  asserts  that  the  lack  of  money  makes 
no  diiference  mth  the  fulness  of  the  invitation.  But  if  we 
read  it  with  the  rising  slide  on  money j  we  virtually  insist  on 
the  inquiry  whether  the  invited  person  has  money,  and  we 
imply  that  if  he  has  money,  he  is  not  invited  ! 

Sometimes  the  voice  winds  from  one  pitch  to  another. 
Thus,  in  mockery,  the  word  oh  may  be  struck  on  a  low  note, 
and,  the  sound  being  prolonged,  the  voice  may  glide  up  through 
several  tones  of  the  musical  scale,  and  then  return  towards  the 
low  not«  first  uttered.  This  musical  movement  of  the  voice 
may  be  reversed.  The  movement  is  not  direct,  straightfor- 
ward, upright,  or  downright,  but  is  winding,  crooked,  wriggling. 
By  a  deep  analogy,  tliis  change  of  pitch  often  reveals  a  cor- 
responding state  of  mind,  sinuous,  insincere,  indirect,  mock- 
ing, to 

Keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  bi-eak  it  to  our  hope. 

Thus,  "  (5h  !  you  regretted  the  partition  of  Poland  !  "  Here  a 
sinuous  pitch  on  oh  and  on  the  accented  syllable  of  regretted 
gives  edge  to  the  sarcasm. 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  however,  that  this  turn  of  voice  is 
not  often  appropriate  to  honest,  straightforward  speech.  Indeed, 
the  most  common  use  of  it  is  to  express  or  intimate  a  contrast ; 
as  to  correct  an  error  by  admitting  what  is  tme  and  rebutting 
what  is  fSfidse.  Your  physician  tells  you  that  your  friend, 
hopelessly  ill  of  consumption,  is  "  better  to-day  "  ;  but  his  cir- 
cumflex accent  ( i.  e.  winding  pitch)  on  the  word  "  better,"  or 


28  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

"  to-day,"  indicates  clearly  that  the  patient  cannot  hope  for 
complete  restoration  to  health.  Teachers  have  constant  occa- 
sion to  use  the  circumflex.  Thus,  "Triie,  the  sun  is  much 
nearer  the  earth  in  winter ;  but  the  rays  fall  so  much  more 
obliquely  that  we  receive  less  heat." 

By  suggesting  antitheses,  the  circumflex  gives  sprightliness 
to  discourse.     Thus  :  — 

I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel.  But  when 
the  parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  t/*;  as, 
"If  ySu  said  sd,  then  I  said  sd"  ;  and  they  shook  bauds  and  swore 
brothers.  Your  1/ is  the  only  peacemaker !  Much  virtue  in  an  (/".*  — 
Shakespea&e. 

STRESa 
If  we  examine  a  vowel  sound  when  it  is  prolonged,  we  find 
the  force  or  degree  of  loudness  varying  on  different  parts.     The 
first  part  of  the  sound  may  be  loudest,  as  in  the  following  quo- 
tations :  — 

**  Bang  !  went  the  blunderbuss." 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels. 

COWPER. 

And  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er. 
Campbell. 
It  is  —  it  is  the  cannon's  opening  roar. 
Byron. 
By  an  unconscious  imitation,  we  here  give  greater  Stress  to 
the  initial  part  of  the  vowel  sound  in  bangy  smack,  gun's,  can- 
non's.    This  is  called  initial  stress,  or  radical  t  stress. 

Some  sounds  in  nature  and  in  art  begin  gently,  increase,  and 
then  diminish.     Thus  :  — 

It  was  the  last  swelling  peal  of  yonder  organ,  —  "  Their  bodies  rest  in 
peace,  but  their  name  liveth  evermore."     I  catch  the  solemn  sound  ;  I 

*  The  Irish  have  a  good-humored  sauciness  in  their  peculiar  circumflex 
slide  ;  as  in  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  expostulation  with  liis  shoemaker  :  "  I  t61d 
you  to  make  one  boot  Idrger  than  the  other,  and  you  've  done  just  the  oppo- 
site ;  you  Ve  made  one  smdUer  than  the  other  !  " 

t  "  Radical "  is  from  the  Latin  radix,  root ;  as  if  the  initial  part  of  a  soimd 
were  its  root 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

echo  that  lofty  strain  of  funeral  triumph,   "Their  name  liveth  ever- 
more I  "  —  Webstkr. 

Here  on  all  the  long  vowels,  as  in  lastj  peal,  organs  peaces  ever- 
martf  sound,  lofty,  strain,  name,  the  voice  swells  in  the  middle 
of  the  long  sound.  This  kind  of  sti^ess  is  known  to  elocution- 
ists as  the  median,  or  middle,  stress. 

A  few  sounds  are  loudest  at  the  last.  The  following  may  Im3 
so  read  as  to  give  the  stress  on  the  very  last  part  of  the  long 
sounds : — 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer  doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 

And  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  loud,  from  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 

Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war- note  proud,  the  trampling  and  the  hum. 

Macau  LAY. 

When  the  final  part  of  the  sound  of  a  vowel  or  diphthong  is 
loudest,  the  stress  is  called  ^na/  stress.* 

Abrupt,  sudden  sounds  bear  some  analogy  to  abrupt,  sud- 
den emotions  and  ideas.  Anger,  for  example,  is  quick,  passion- 
ate, explosive.  Thus  Antony  speaks  to  Brutus  and  Cassius 
with  initial  stress  :  — 

Villains  !  you  did  not  so  when  your  vile  daggers 

Hacked  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar  : 

You  showed  your  teeth  like  a|)es,  and  fawned  like  hounds, 

And  bowed  like  bondmen  kissing  Ciesar's  feet, 

Whilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind, 

Struck  Ciesar  on  tlic  neck.     0.  you  flatterers  ! 

Shakespeare. 

Gentle,  swelling  emotions  naturally  require  corresponding 
median  stress.     Thus  :  — 

I  pant  for  the  music  which  is  divine  ; 

My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower  ; 
Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine  ; 

Loosen  tlie  notes  in  a  silver  shower. 
Like  an  herbless  plain  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again  ! 

*  Final  stress  is  tcnued  by  many  elocutionists  vanishmg  stress,  the  iMt  part 
of  the  sound  being  designated  by  them  the 


30  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

Let  me  drink  in  the  music  of  that  sweet  sound 

More,  O  more  !  —  I  am  thirsting  yet. 
It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  has  bound 

\j\yoi\  my  heart,  to  stifle  it. 
The  dissolving  strain,  through  every  vein. 

Passes  into  my  heart  and  brain  ! 

Shellet. 

But  when  the  feeling  grows  more  intense  during  the  brief 
time  occupied  in  the  utterance,  the  stress  is  ofben  greatest  on 
the  last  part  of  the  prolonged  sound.  Thus,  dogged  obstinacy, 
growing  momentarily  more  dogged,  says,  "  I  won't,"  with  sud- 
den force  on  the  termination  of  the  long  vowel  So,  impa- 
tience, growing  more  vehement,  is  uttered  with  the  same  fimal 
stress.     Thus  :  — 

Shame  !  shame  !  that  in  such  a  proiul  moment  of  life, 
Worth  ages  of  history,  when,  haU  you  but  hurled 

One  bolt  at  your  bloody  invader,  that  strife 

Between  freemen  and  tyrants  had  spread  through  the  world  — 

That  then  —  O,  disgrace  upon  manhood  !  e'en  then 
You  should  falter  1  should  cling  to  your  pitiful  breath  ! 

Cower  down  into  beasts,  when  you  might  have  stood  men, 
And  prefer  a  slave's  life  to  a  glorious  death  f 

Moore. 

Among  those  emotions  and  states  of  mind  which  often 
require  initial  or  "  radical  "  stress  are  cheerfulness,  mirth,  joy, 
contempt,  scorn,  malice,  scolding,  anger,  rage,  defiance,  com- 
mand, decision,  fear,  terror,  surprise,  wonder,  and  matter 
of  fact  Ajnong  those  which  often  require  the  middle  or 
"median"  stress  are  tranquillity,  joy,  delight,  admiration,  love, 
tenderness,  sorrow,  pity,  reverence,  solemnity,  awe,  and  horror. 
Ajnong  those  which  often  require  the  final  or  "vanishing" 
stress  are  obstinacy,  impatience,  distress,  scorn,  disgust,  remorse. 

A  tremor  of  the  voice  is  called  tremulous  or  "  iiitermittent  ** 
stre^  ;  as  in  the  following  :  — 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm  — 


JSTRODUCTION.  31 

"  God,  who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 
0  nnay  he  never  more  be  warm  ! " 

Wordsworth. 

Extreme  feebleness,  fear,  chilliness,  agitation,  may  give  rise 
to  the  intermittent  stress.     So  may  imitation. 

Some  elocutionists  speak  also  of  what  they  term   "  thor- 
ough "  stress,  in  which  the  shouting  tone  is  prolonged ;  as,  — 
Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers  ;  ring  your  bells  ! 
King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach  ! 
0|>en  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way  ! 

Shakespeare. 

This  stress  is  appropriate  in  calling  to  those  at  a  great  distance. 

Elocutionists,  furthermore,  mention  what  they  style  "  com- 
pound "  stress.  It  is  a  combination  of  the  initial  and  the  final. 
Thus,  in  derision,  the  circumflex  slide  begins  and  ends  with 
considerable  force  :  — 

"  0,  but  he  paiised  on  the  brink  !  " 

Generally,  wherever  the  circumflex  slide  is  proper,  as  in 
surprise,  mockery,  irony,  or  in  admitting  what  is  true  and  coup- 
ling it  with  limitations,  there  the  compound  stress  may  be 
requisite. 

QUALITY. 

Ben  Jonson  says  of  the  letter  r,  "  It  is  the  dog's  letter,  and 
hurreth  [trills]  in  the  sound."  The  hissing  «  is  still  more 
unpleasant  to  the  ear.  The  English  language  still  has  many 
harsh  consonant  sounds,  although  it  has  been  very  greatly  sof- 
tened during  the  last  thousand  years. 

Our  piratical  Saxon  ancestors,  on  the  shores  of  the  stormy 
German  Ocean,  had  an  articulation  as  rough  as  their  roaring 
winds  and  waves.  Byron  forcibly  contrasts  the  Italian  and 
the  English  in  the  following  stanza  :  — 

I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastanl  Latin, 
Which  melts  like  kis.se.s  in  a  female  mouth, 
And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin. 
With  syllables  that  breathe  of  the  sweet  south, 


32  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Andgi'ntif  ii(|uius  ::!;!::'  il!  -  .  \>;a  in, 

That  uot  a  single  >     .      ;    ^      ;.     incouth  ; 

Unlike  our  northern,  whistling,  grunting  guttural. 

Which  we  're  obliged  to  hiss  and  spit  and  sputter  all ! 
The  element  of  vocal  expression   here  suggested  is  termed 
Quality. 

Pure  quality  is  opposed  to  aspirated,  hissing,  or  whispering 
tones,  suggestive  of  secrecy,  of  snakes,  of  geese,  and  of  angry 
cats ;  to  guttural  tones,  reminding  of  choking  anger  and  of 
swine  and  swinish  men  ;  to  hoarse  or  wheezy  tones,  indicative 
of  exhaustion  and  disease ;  to  hollow  or  pectoral  tones,  hinting 
of  ghosts  and  sepulchres ;  and  to  nasal  tones,  that  tell  of  colds 
and  whining  and  cant. 

A  profusion  of  vowel  sounds  is  pleasing  to  the  ear ;  a  pro- 
fusion of  consonant  sounds  is  annoying.  The  sweetness  of 
music  is  largely  due  to  its  pure  quality ;  and  it  is  safe  to  assert, 
as  a  general  principle,  that  beauty,  purity,  and  all  the  milder 
virtues  incline  to  clearness  of  voice.     Thus  :  — 

I  have  heard  some  fine  music,  as  men  are  wont  to  speak,  —  the  play 
of  orchestras,  the  anthems  of  choirs,  the  voices  of  son^  that  moved 
admiring  nations.  But  in  the  lofty  passes  of  the  Alps  I  heard  a  music 
overhead  from  Gotl's  orchestra,  the  giant  peaks  of  rock  and  ice,  cur- 
tained in  by  the  driving  mist  and  only  dimly  visible  athwart  the  sky 
through  its  folds,  such  as  mocks  all  sounds  our  lower  worlds  of  art  can 
ever  hope  to  raise.  I  stood  (excuse  the  simplicity  ! )  calling  to  them  in 
the  loudest  shouts  I  could  raise,  and  listening  in  compulsory  trance  to 
their  reply.  I  heard  them  roll  it  up  through  their  cloudy  worlds  of 
snow,  sifting  out  the  harsh  qualities  that  were  tearing  in  it  like  demon 
screams  of  sin,  holding  on  upon  it  as  if  it  were  a  hymn  they  were  fining 
to  the  ear  of  the  great  Creator,  and  sending  it  round  and  round  in  long 
reduplications  of  sweetness ;  until  finally,  receding  and  rising,  it  trem- 
bled as  it  were  among  the  quick  gratulations  of  angels,  and  fell  into  the 
silence  of  the  pure  empyrean  !  I  had  never  any  conception  before  of 
purity  of  sound,  or  what  a  simple  sound  may  tell  of  purity  by  its  own 
pure  quality  ;  and  I  could  only  exclaim,  "0  my  God,  teach  me  this! 
Be  this  with  me  forever."  All  other  sounds  are  gone.  The  voices  of 
yesterday,  heard  in  the  silence  of  entranced  multitudes,  are  gone  ;  but 
that  is  with  me  still,  and  I  trust  will  never  cease  to  ring  in  my  spirit 
till  I  go  down  to  the  chambers  of  silence  itself !  —  Bushnell. 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

The  harsh,  the  rough,  the  disagreeable,  are  akin  to  impure 
vocal  qualities.  We  are  not,  however,  to  conclude  that  there 
is  no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  latter.  Anger,  for  example, 
may  be  heroic  or  even  divine.  There  would  be  little  strength 
of  character  without  it,  and  there  would  be  no  strength  in 
speech  without  prominent  consonant  sounds.     Thus  :  — 

I  am  astonished  !  shocked  !  to  hear  such  principles  confessed,  —  to 
hear  them  avowed  in  this  house,  or  in  this  country ;  principles  equally 
unconstitutional,  inhuman,  and  unchristian  ! 

"  That  God  and  nature  put  into  our  hands  "  !  I  know  not  what  ideas 
that  loni  may  entertain  of  God  and  nature  ;  but  I  know  that  such 
abominable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent  to  religion  and  humanity ! 
What !  to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction  of  God  and  nature  to  the  mas- 
sacre of  the  Indian  scalping-knife  !  to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing, 
murdering,  roasting,  and  eating  —  literally,  my  lords,  eating  —  the 
mangled  remains  of  his  barbarous  battles !  ....  To  turn  forth  into 
our  settlements,  among  our  ancient  connections,  friends,  and  relations, 
the  merciless  cannibal,  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  man,  woman,  and 
child !  to  send  forth  the  infidel  savage !  against  whom  ?  against  your 
Protestant  brethren  !  to  lay  waste  their  country,  to  desolate  their  dwell- 
ings, and  extirpate  their  race  and  name  with  these  horrible  hell-hounds 
of  savage  war  !  —  Chatham. 

Of  the  emotions  that  especially  require  pure  vocality,  we 
may  mention  joy,  delight,  admiration,  tranquillity,  love,  ten- 
derness, sorrow  when  not  excessive,  pity,  solemnity,  rever- 
ence, and  gentle  command.  Among  those  that  usually  require 
impure  quality,  are  impatience,  contempt,  scorn,  malice,  scold- 
ing, rage,  defiance,  anger,  terror,  horror,  remorse,  surprise,  won- 
der, secrecy,  obstinacy,  revenge,  and  great  fear. 


We  have  thus  evolved  the  seven  leading  elements  of  vocal 
expression,  —  Force,  Volume,  Movement,  Pitch,  Slides,  Stress, 
antl  Quality.  We  have  seen  that  they  are  founded  largely  on 
imitation  and  analogy,  and  that  they  have  a  natural  fitness 
to  express  corresponding  facts.* 

*  Language,  as  miglit  have  been  inferrc<l  from  what  wo  have  said,  is  largely 
onomatopoetic  or  imitative.    This  is  abundantly  evident  from  an  inspection 


34  THh   >i\iii    HhAitER. 

The  poets  are  much  given  to  imitation  of  sounds.  As  one 
among  innumerable  instances,  take  this  from  Taylor's  trans- 
lation of  Biii^er's  Lenare  :  — 

He  cracked  his  whip  !  the  locks,  the  bolU 
Cling-clang  asunder  flew  ! 

Take  the  following  description  by  Tennyson  of  Sir  Bedi- 
vere's  hurling  the  magic  sword  Excalibur.  Note  the  striking 
analogy  of  whirling,  flashing,  and  rushing,  which  the  broken 
measure  of  the  poetry  suggests  :  — 

....     Clutched  the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  room  ! 

Orators,  too,  select  with  care  words  whose  sound  harmonizes 
with  their  mental  moods.  "Some  words,"  says  an  eloquent 
writer,  "  sound  out  like  drums ;  some  breathe  memories  sweet 
as  flutes ;  some  call  like  a  clarionet ;  some  shout  a  chaige  like 
tnimpets  ;  some  are  sweet  as  children's  talk  ;  others,  rich  as  a 
mother's  answering  back." 

See  how  Everett  suggests,  by  the  sound  of  his  well-chosen 
words,  the  midnight  silence  broken  by  a  rushing  train  of  cars :  — 

All  was  wrapped  in  darkness  and  hnsheil  in  silence,  broken  only  by 
what  seemed,  at  that  hour,  the  unearthly  clank  and  nish  of  the  train. 

Webster  suggests  the  din  of  civil  war  by  the  jarring  words,  — 

States  dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent ;  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds, 
and  drenched,  it  may  be,  with  fraternal  blood. 

But  whether  words  be  chosen  with  reference  to  fitness  of 
sound  or  not,  it  is  a  part  of  the  business  of  every  speaker  to 

of  the  following,  out  of  hundreds  of  similar  words:  babble,  bang,  bellow, 
bow-wow,  bubble,  buzz,  click,  cluck,  coo,  cuckoo,  crack,  crash,  croak, 
cnmch,  ding-dong,  drum,  gong,  gurgle,  grunt,  grumble,  gobble,  growl,  hoot, 
hiss,  howl,  hum,  hurly-burly,  jingle,  mew,  murmur,  quack,  rattle,  roar,  rub- 
a-dub,  rumble,  sob,  slam,  tinkle,  tick,  twitter,  thud,  wheeze,  whine,  whiz, 
whistle,  whisper.  See  Introduction  to  Wedgwood's  Dictionary  of  English 
Etymology. 


IMUnltUCTiuN.  35 

give  by  liis  tones  as  vivid  an  impression  as  possible,  and  to 
infuse  into  every  sentence  tlie  appropriate  force,  volume,  move- 
ment, pitch,  slides,  stress,  and  quality. 

We  have  thus  far  dealt,  for  the  most  part,  with  outward 
correspondences.*  A  more  difficult  matter  now  presents 
itself.  How  shall  the  orator  represent  the  inner  workings 
of  tlie  soull  What  elements  of  vocal  expression  shall  body 
forth  the  emotions'?  There  is  undoubtedly  a  best  expression 
of  every  mental  act  and  state.  How  to  find  it,  is  the  in- 
quiry. 

Here  is  a  comparatively  unexplored  field.  We  may  indicate 
one  method  of  investigation;  but  the  limits  of  the  present 
treatise  require  that  we  confine  ourselves  mostly  to  results  that 
lie  upon  the  surface. 

Take  the  sentiment  of  awe.  Elocutionists,  without  giving 
any  reason,  tell  us  that  it  requires  low  pitch,  large  volume, 
slow  movement,  slight  force,  median  stress,  falling  slides, 
hoarse  quality.     What  is  the  philosophical  explanation? 

Awe  is  perhaps  oftenest  awakened  by  the  great  forces  of 
nature,  —  the  roar  of  lions,  the  noise  of  the  torrent,  the  ava- 
lanche, the  wind,  the  thunder,  the  earthquake.  These  utter 
themselves  in  a  deep,  grave,  bass  sound.  Hence,  from  time 
immemorial,  a  low  pitch  has  been  deemed  appropriate  to  what 
is  vast,  solemn,  or  awful.  Their  voices,  like  themselves,  are 
vast.  Hence,  the  awful  is  expressed  by  large  volume.  These 
sounds  swell  and  sink.  Hence,  by  a  kind  of  imitation,  they 
give  rise  to  a  slight  median  stress.  These  sounds  are  slow ; 
and,  besides,  they  repress  our  activity.  Hence  our  voices 
move  with  corresponding  slowness.  They  overpower  iis,  teach 
us  our  nothingness.     Hence  we  speak  of  them  \vith  bated 

•  See,  however,  the  remarks  on  initial  stress  as  appropriate  for  anger,  and 
on  median  stress  as  expressive  of  gentle  emotion,  and  final  stress  as  fit  to 
give  the  sense  of  impatience  (pages  29,  SO).  See  also  the  remarks  (on  page 
27)  on  the  circnrnflex  slide  as  suggestive  of  crooked  thought  and  insincere 
dealing. 


36  THE   .SIXTH   liKAhKlL 

breath,  and,  at  most,  with  only  moderate  force.     They  enforce 

silent  acquiescence, 

"  While  thinking  roan 
Shrinks  back  into  hiroself,  —  himself  so  mean 
'Mid  things  so  vast." 

Hence  short  and  falling  slides,  to  express  awe.  They  have 
hoarse  tones ;  and  so  our  voices,  when  not  hushed  to  a  whis- 
per, are  apt  to  express  awe  by  deep,  almost  hoarse,  utteranco. 
Awe,  then,  commonly  has  low  pitch,  large  volume,  median 
stress,  slow  movement,  slight  or  moderate  force,  falling  slides, 
and  impure  (hoarse)  quality. 

If  such  be  the  facts  in  regard  to  awe,  evidently,  by  a  nati 
ral  antithesis,  mirthfulness  would  be  expressed,  to  some  extent 
at  least,  by  opposite  elements;  as  high  pitch,  small  volume, 
initial  stress,  quick  movement,  rising  slides,  pure  quality. 
But,  as  mirth  is  often  imitative,  these  elements  would  be  more 
or  less  varied  according  to  circumstances. 

By  similar  methods  of  investigation,  doubtless  much  of  tli* 
philosophy  of  the  vocal  expression  of  emotions  might  be  re- 
vealed ;  but  our  limited  space  compels  us  to  present  only  the 
results  of  observation  and  researcL  Latitude  must  be  allowed 
for  a  diversity  of  tastes  in  regard  to  some  of  the  details.  Not 
even  the  best  elocutionists  will  agree  on  all  points. 

SUGGESTIONS   IN  REGARD  TO  VOCAL  EXPRESSION. 

Tranquillity  is  usually  of  moderate  force,  or  a  little  les- 
rather  slow  movement;  middle  pitch,  tending  to  low;  pui 
quality  ;  moderate  or  slight  volume  ;  gentle  and  median  stress  , 
moderate  or  short  slides,  mostly  falling.     Thus  :  — 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still. 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove  ; 
When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  gi^ove,  — 
It  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began  ; 


TNTRrmunTmN.  37 

No  more  with  lums<'lt  or  with  nutun*  ai  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 

Beattik. 

Cheerfulness  is  usually  of  moderate  force,  or  a  little  greater ; 
(I nick  movement ;  middle  pitch,  or  a  little  higher ;  pure  qual- 
ity ;  moderate  or  slight  volume ;  initial  sti-ess,  sometimes  me- 
dian;  moderate  or  longer  slides.     Thus:  — 

0,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west ! 

Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 

And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon  had  none  ; 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  lie  rode  all  alone. 

So  merry  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone  : 

He  swam  the  Esk  Kiver,  where  ford  there  was  none  : 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

Scott. 

Mirth,  if  the  degree  of  fun  be  considerable,  and  the  person 
be  demonstrative,  is  usually  rather  loud,  quick,  high,  pure, 
except  in  imitation  of  the  opposite  qualities ;  of  moderate  or 
smidl  volume  ;  initial  stress  ;  extensive,  often  circumflex^  slides. 
Thus,  in  Holmes's  Treadmill  Song  :  — 

The  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky. 

The  earth  rolls  on  below  ; 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly  ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legge<l  man. 

And  stir  your  solid  p^  ! 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs. 


38  77/ A'   SfXTH    READER. 

What  though  you  *re  awkward  at  the  trade  ? 

There  *8  time  enough  to  leani,  — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  tuni. 

They  *ve  built  os  up  a  noble  wall. 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We  *ve  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about  ! 
So  faster  now,  you  middle  uieii, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It  *8  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends  ! 

Holm  18. 

Mirth,  however,  may  be  imitative,  and  a  tone  of  mock 
seriousness  may  be  adopted.  The  degree  to  which  imitation 
should  be  carrie<l,  and  the  vocal  expression  varied  to  hit  that 
which  is  burlesqued,  parodied,  or  laughed  at,  will  differ  with 
different  readers.  Usually,  attempts  to  i)ersonate  are  only 
partially  successful. 

Humor  is  more  quiet  than  mirth,  and  is  more  under  control. 
It  commonly  has  moderate  force,  moderate  or  quick  movement, 
moderate  or  high  pitch,  pure  quality,  slight  volume;  initial, 
but  not  explosive,  stress ;  moderate  slides.     Thus  :  — 

Now,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our  battles. 

Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he  can, 
Down  among  rebels  and  contraband  chattels. 

What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little  man  ? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are  sleeping, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  \»'ith  the- van, 

Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweethearts  are  weeping ;  — 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  sweet  little  man  ? 

You  with  the  terrible  warlike  mustaches  ! 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan,  — 
You  with  the  waist  made  for  sword-belts  and  sashes,  — 

Where  are  your  shoulder-straps,  sweet  little  man  ? 

Bring  him  the  buttonless  garment  of  woman  ! 
Cover  his  face,  lest  it  freckle  and  tan  ; 


rXTRODUCTION.  39 

Muster  the  "  Apron-string  Guards  "  on  the  Commou  : 
That  is  the  corps  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 

Each  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly  rattan  ! 
They  shall  defend  him  from  laughter  and  hisses 

Aimed  by  low  boys  at  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Holmes. 

Joy  is  usually  loud,  brisk,  high,  pure,  of  full  volume,  me- 
dian stress,  long  slides.     Thus  :  — 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are  ! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henrj'  of  Navarre  ! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance 

Through  thy  cornfields  green  and  sunny  vales,  0  pleasant  laud  of  France ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters. 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy  ; 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  wnr  ! 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Ivry  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Macau  LAY. 

Admiration,  which  always  contains  something  of  joy,  is 
rather  loud,  rather  high;  of  moderate  movement,  sometimes 
quick ;  pure  quality ;  median  stress ;  moderate  volume,  some- 
times large,  especially  when  the  object  is  large;  long  slides. 
Thus :  — 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean  would 
be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting  this  fragment 
of  a  world  hastening  to  rejoin  the  grcat  mass  of  existence  !  What  a 
glorious  monument  of  human  iiwention  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind 
and  wave  ;  ha.s  brought  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  comniunion  ;  has  estab- 
lished an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  i-egions  of 
the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south  ;  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge 
and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life  ;  and  has  thus  lK)und  together  those 
scattered  portions  of  the  human  race  between  which  Nature  seemed  to 
have  thrown  an  insurmount<ible  barrier  !  —  Ikying. 

Deuoht  is  between  joy  and  cheerfulness.  Its  manifestation 
differs  a  little  from  that  of  cheerfulness.  The  movement  is 
rather  fast ;  the  force  is  considerable  ;  the  slides  are  moderate  ; 


40  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

the  stress  is  strongly  median  ;  the  volume  is  moderate  or  large ; 
the  quality  is  very  pure.     Thus  :  — 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  golden  bells : 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foret4;lls  ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 

How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten  golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  whUe  she  gloatB 
On  the  moon  ! 

0,  from  out  the  sounding  ceUs, 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  I 

How  it  swells  !     How  it  dwells 

On  the  future  !    How  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing  of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  beUs,  bells,  — 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

POE. 

Love,  undisturbed,  is  usually  of  slight  or  moderate  force ; 
moderate  movement,  sometimes  inclining  to  quick ;  moderate 
or  high  pitch ;  very  pure  quality ;  moderate  or  slight  volume ; 
soft  median  stress ;  moderate  slides,  often  rising.     Thus :  ^- 

Not  as  all  other  women  are. 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear  : 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  £&r 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star ; 
And  yet  her  h^urt  is  ever  near. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own. 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know  : 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things ; 
And  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
•     Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings. 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 


INTRODUCTION.  41 

Blessing  she  is  :  God  made  her  so  ; 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow  ; 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

Lowell. 

Tenderness  is  usually  rather  higli,  pure,  of  slight  force, 
moderate  or  slow  movement,  slight  volume,  gentle  median 
stress,  sometimes  tremulous ;  short  or  moderate  slides,  oftener 
rising  than  falling.     Thus  :  — 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further :  0,  I  die  for  food  !  Here 
lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  grave.     Farewell,  kind  master. 

Orlando.  Why,  how  now,  Adam !  no  greater  heart  in  thee  ?  Live 
a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thyself  a  Uttle.  If  this  uncouth  forest 
yield  anything  savage,  I  will  either  be  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  food  to 
thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than  thy  powers.  For  my  sake  be 
comfortable  ;  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's  end.     I  will  here  be  with 

thee  presently Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air  :  come,  I  will  bear 

thee  to  some  shelter ;  and  thou  shalt  not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if 
there  live  anything  in  this  desert.  Cheerly,  good  Adam.  —  Shake- 
speare. 

If  the  tenderness  is  ^playful,  the  slides  may  be  long  and 
circumflex. 

Sorrow  is  of  various  kinds.  When  allied  to  tenderness  and 
pity,  it  has  usually  slight  force,  slow  movement,  high  pitch ; 
pure  quality,  sometimes  aspirated  ;  slight  volume ;  median  stress, 
sometimes  intermittent ;  moderate  or  long  slides,  often  rising. 

Thus:  — 

Gone,  gone  from  us  !  and  shall  we  see 

Those  sibyl-leaves  of  destiny, 

Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore  ? 

Those  deep  dark  eyes,  so  warm  and  bright. 

Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 

Lay  slumbering  in  proplietic  light. 

In  characters  a  child  might  s(;an  ? 

So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly  ! 

0  stem  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

Lowell. 

Pmr  is  usually  of  slight  force,  rather  slow  movement,  very 


42  THE  SIXTH   READER, 

high   pitch,  pure   quality,  small   volume;  median,  or  slight 
radical,  streas;  moderate  slides,  often  rising.     Thus:  — 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my  brothers  ! 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  f 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows, 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  towards  the  west ; 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers,  — 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  othere. 
In  the  country  of  the  free  I 

Mrs.  Bkowniko. 

DiSTRBBS  is  of  several  kinds  and  degrees.     It  is  usually 
loud,  by  paroxysms;  very  high,  quick,  with  occasional  long 
sounds  of  grief;  aspirated;  of  moderate  volume;  vanishing 
stress,  rarely  median  ;  long  slides,  mostly  rising.     Thus  :  — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Cssar,  0,  't  is  true  ! 
If,  then,  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now. 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee,  dearer  than  thy  death. 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace. 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds. 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood. 
It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 
On  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 

SiIAK£8P£AB£. 

Impatience  is  usually  loud,  quick,  high;  harsh,  impure; 
of  moderate  or  small  volume ;  strong  vanishing  *  stress ;  long, 
usually  falling  slides.     Thus  :  — 

Lear.     You  heavens,  give  me  patience,  —  patience  I  need. 
You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 
As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  wretched  in  both. 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 

•  As  if,  the  longer  the  mind  dwelt  on  the  thought,  the  more  intense  the 
feeling  became. 


INTRODUCTION.  43 

Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 

To  bear  it  tamely  :  touch  me  with  noble  anger. 

0,  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops. 

Stain  my  man's  cheeks  !  —  No,  you  unnatural  hags, 

I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both 

That  all  the  world  shall  —  I  will  do  such  things  — 

What  they  are  yet,  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 

The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think  I  '11  weep  : 

No,  1  '11  not  weep  !  — 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping  ;  but  this  heart 

Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws 

Or  e'er  I  '11  weep  !  —  0  fool,  I  shall  go  mad  ! 

Shakespeare. 

Vexation    has   very  nearly  the  same  vocal  expression  as 

impatience.     Thus:  — 

0,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  1 ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion. 
Could  force  his  soul  so  to  his  own  conceit 
That,  from  her  working,  all  his  visage  wanned. 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in  his  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  smting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?  and  all  for  nothing  i 


Yet  I,  a  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal 

Can  say  nothing ! 

Shakespeare. 

CoNTEMFT  is  usually  of  slight  force,  quick  or  moderate  move- 
ment, moderate  pitch,  expulsive  initial  stress,  aspirated  whis- 
j)ering  quality,  small  volume  ;  moderate,  sometimes  long  slides. 
Thus : — 

Has  the  gentleman  done  f  Has  he  completely  done  ?  He  was  un- 
parliamentary from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  speech.  There  was 
scarce  a  word  he  uttered  that  was  not  a  violation  of  the  privileges  of  this 
house.  But  I  did  not  call  him  to  order.  Why  ?  Because  the  limited 
talents  of  some  men  render  it  impossible  for  them  to  l)e  severe  without 
being  unparliamentar}'.  But  before  I  sit  down,  I  shall  show  him  how  to 
be  severe  and  parliamentar>'  at  the  same  time.  On  any  other  occasion  I 
hould  think  myself  justifiable  in  treating  with  silent  contempt  anything 
lii«h  might  fall  from  that  honorable  member.  — GRArrAN. 


44  THE  SIXTH  READER 

SooBN  is  similar  to  contempt,  but  louder,  of  larger  volume, 
and  longer  slides,  usually  falling.     Thus  :  — 

May  their  fate  be  a  mock-word  !  may  men  of  all  lauds 
Laugh  out  with  a  scorn  that  shall  ring  to  the  poles  ! 

When  each  sword  that  the  cowards  let  fall  from  their  hands 
Shall  be  foTfged  into  fetters  to  enter  their  souls. 

MooRB. 

Maucb,  which  is  a  settled  state  of  the  mind,  is  usually  of 
mo<lerate  force,  moderate  or  slow  movement,  low  pitch,  initial 
stress,  strongly  aspirated  or  guttural  quality,  small  volume, 
short  slides.     Thus  :  — 

Aside  the  devil  turned 
.     .     .     .     and  to  himself  thus  plained : 
"Sight  hateful !  sight  tormenting  !    Thus  these  two, 
Imparadised  in  one  another's  arms, 
The  happier  Eden,  shall  eigoy  their  fill 
Of  bliss  on  bUas  ;  while  1  to  hell  am  thrust ! " 

Milton. 

SooLDiNO  is  similar  to  Impatience.  It  is  usiiaUy  loud, 
quick,  high,  but  may  snarl  in  a  moderate  or  low  pitch;  of 
impure  quality,  small  volume,  marked  initial  stress;  short 
slides,  often  circumflex.     Thus:  — 

Capulet.     How  now  !  how  now,  chop-logic  !    What  is  this  ? 
*♦  Proud  "  —  and,  **  I  thank  you  "  —  and,  "  I  thank  you  not "  ; 
And  yet  "not  proud  **  !     Mistress  minion,  you, 
Thank  me  no  t bankings,  nor  proud  me  no  prouds  ; 
But  fettle  your  fine  joints  'gainst  Thursday  next 
To  go  with  Paris  to  St  Peter's  church  ; 
Or  1  will  drag  thee  on  a  hurdle  thither  ! 
You  tallow-face  ! 

Lady  Capulet.     Fie  !  fie  !  what,  are  you  mad  ? 

Juliet.     Good  father,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees. 
Hear  me  \*ith  patience  hut  to  speak  a  word. 

Capulet.     Hang  thee,  young  baggage  !  disobedient  wretch  ! 

I  tell  thee  what,  —  get  thee  to  church  o'  Thursday, 

Or  never  after  look  me  in  the  face  '. 

Speak  not ;  reply  not ;  do  not  answer  me  ! 

My  fingers  itch  1 

Shakespeare. 


INTRODUCTION,  45 

Anger,  when  it  has  not  settled  into  cool  malice,  is  usually 
loud,  quick,  of  moderate  or  high  pitch;  very  impure,  the 
words  being  hissed  or  growled  ;  of  small  volume,  the  teeth  be- 
ing set ;  abrupt,  explosive,  initial  sti^ess,  sometimes  vanishing ; 
long  slides,  often  falling,  but  sometimes  circumflex.     Thus  :  — 

Then  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 

Amid  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine  I 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  ! 

Gehenna  of  the  waters  !    Thou  sea  Sodom  ! 

Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods  ! 

Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

Byron. 

Ra.oe  and  Fury  are  usually  very  loud,  very  quick,  very 
high,  very  impure,  of  very  large  volume,  very  abrupt  initial 
stress,  and  long  slides,  often  falling.     Thus  :  — 

.   And  darest  thou,  then, 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 
The  Douglas  in  his  hall ! 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ? 
No  !  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell  !     No  ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  !     What,  warder,  ho  ! 

Let  tlie  portcullis  fall  ! 

Scott. 

Defiance  is  usually  quick,  high,  very  loud,  of  very  largo 
volume,  very  impure  quality,  abrupt  initial  stress,  and  long 
slides.     Thus :  — 

Here  I  stand  ready  for  impeachment  or  trial.  I  dare  accusation.  I 
defy  the  honorable  gentleman  ;  I  defy  the  government ;  I  defy  their 
whole  phalanx.  Let  them  come  forth  !  I  tell  the  ministers,  I  will 
neither  give  quarter  nor  take  it  !  —  Grattan. 

Command  is  usually  loud,  of  moderate  or  quick  movement, 
moderate  or  high  pitch,  large  volume ;  pure  quality,  unless 
an^'ry  ;  marked  initial  stress  ;  long  falling  slides.     Thus  :  — 

V-Aziv]  !     Half  these  draw  off,  and  coast  the  south 
^^'ith  strictest  watch.     These  other,  wheel  the  north. 

Milton. 


46  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Boldness  is  usually  loud,  quick,  of  moderate  o.  high  pitch, 
large  volume,  moderately  pure  (quality,  moderate  falling  slides, 
initial  stress.     Thus  :  — 

Then  out  gpake  brave  Horatiua, 

The  captain  of  the  gate : 
*'  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh,  soon  or  late  : 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  aahea  of  hU  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods  f 

*'  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  bold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  straight  path  a  thousand 
May  well  be  stopped  by  three  : 
Now,  who  vnW  stand  on  either  hand. 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  f " 

Macaulay. 
Decision  is  usually  rather  loud,  rather  quick,  of  moderate 
pitch,  moderate  or  pure  quaUty,  moderate  volume;  marked, 
but   not    explosive,  initial    stress ;    moderate    Mling  slides. 
Thus:  — 

Woe  unto  them  that  rise  up  early  in  the  morning  that  they  may  follow 
strong  drink  ;  that  continue  until  night,  till  wine  inflame  them  !  An<l 
the  harp  and  the  viol,  the  tabret  and  pipe  and  ^^ine  are  in  their  feasts ; 
but  they  regard  not  the  work  of  the  Lord,  neither  consider  the  operation 
of  his  hands.  Therefore  my  people  are  gone  into  captivity,  because  they 
have  no  knowledge  ;  and  their  honorable  men  are  famished,  and  their 
multitude  dried  up  with  thirst.  Therefore  hell  hath  enlarged  herselt 
and  opened  her  mouth  without  measure  ;  and  their  glory  and  their  mui 
titude  and  their  pomp,  and  he  that  rejoiceth,  shall  descend  into  it ;  and 
the  mean  man  shall  be  brought  down,  and  the  mighty  man  shall  be 
humbled.  —  Isaiah. 

Would  you,  then,  learn  to  dissipate  the  band 

Of  these  huge  threatening  difficulties  dire. 

That  in  the  weak  man's  way  like  lions  stand. 

His  soul  appall,  and  damp  his  rising  fire  ? 


INTRODUCTION.  47 

Besolve,  resolve  !  and  to  be  men  aspire  ! 

Exert  that  noblest  privilege  alone 

Here  to  mankind  indulged  ;  control  desire  ; 

Let  godlike  Reason  from  her  sovereign  throne 

Speak  the  commanding  word,  "  I  will  !"  and  it  is  done. 

Thomson. 

Business,  or  Matter  of  Fact,  is  usually  moderate  in  force, 
movement,  and  pitch  ;  of  medium  quality ;  small  volume  ;  ini- 
tial, but  not  marked  stress ;  short,  variable  slides.     Thus  :  — 

This  is  Detroit,  the  commercial  metropolis  of  Michigan.  It  is  a  pros- 
perous and  beautiful  city,  and  worthy  of  your  pride.     I  have  enjoyed  its 

hospitalities  liberal  and  long Seventy  miles  west  of  Detroit  is 

Leoni,  an  obscure  district  containing  two  villages,  Leoni  and  Michigan 
Centre.  Hei*e  in  this  dock  are  the  principal  citizens  of  that  community. 
Either  they  have  committed  a  great  crime  against  this  State,  or  there  is 
a  conspiracy  of  infamous  persons  to  effect  their  ruin  through  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  law.  —  Seward. 

Secrecy  is  usually  of  slight  or  very  slight  force,  quick  move- 
ment, and  is  carried  on  in  a  whisper  or  undertone. 

In  the  following  passage  secrecy  is  blended  with  admiration, 
and   controls   the   expression ;   which,  however,  is  somewhat 

softened. 

What  is 't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir. 

It  carries  a  brave  form  :  but  'tis  a  spirit ! 

.     .     .     .     I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 

I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Shakespeare. 

In  the  following,  secrecy  is  blended  ^vith  malice,  and  pre- 
ponderates in  the  reading.  The  wliispering  voice,  however,  is 
greatly  roughened  by  the  hatred. 

Kino  John.     Good  Huliert,  Hubert,  Hubert !  throw  thine  eye 
On  yon  young  boy.     I  '11  tell  thee  what,  my  friend. 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  ray  way  ! 
And  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread. 
He  lies  before  me.     Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 


48  THE  SIXTH  READER 

HuBEBT.     And  I  will  keep  him  so 
That  he  tiliall  not  oircud  your  majesty. 
Kino  .Ions.     Death! 
lIuHKKT.  My  lord  ? 

KiKo  John.  A  grave. 

HUBEKT.  Tl«'  slinll   iint  liv«'. 

Fear  is  usually  of  soft  force,  except  when  liunLic ;  of  very 
quick  movement ;  low  pitch,  except  in  great  fright ;  stnmirly 
aspirated  quality;  small  volume  :  tr< mulous,  or  8i)asmo<li< .  ini 
tial  stress ;  short  slides,  mostly  falliii;,'.      rims  :  — 

While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering  with  white  lips,  *•  The  foe  !  they  come  !  they  come  ! " 

Byron. 

Terror  affects  different  p^Tsons  tlifTfn'ntlv.     WIkh  (^xfronio. 
it  18  usually  very  loud,  .^ 

vt  ry  impnro,  but  the  high  noU«  may  be  purw;  uf  variable  vol- 
ume, usually  large ;  spasmodic  initial  stress,  may  be  thorough 
or  tremulous ;  long  slides.     Thus  :  — 

Arannt !  and  quit  my  sight !     Let  the  earth  hide  thee  ! 
Thy  bones  are  mHr'-'«i'<«  :  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sp  i  those  eyes 

Which  thou  doth  giare  wuii ! 

Shaksshlaek. 

So  the  young  prince  Arthur,  when  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the 
ugly  executioners  who  are  to  bum  out  his  eyes,  exclaims,  — 

O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !     My  eyes  are  out, 

Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men  ! 
Awe  has  already  been  explained  on  pages  35  and  36.     The 
following  passage  illustrates  it :  — 

It  thunders  !     Sons  of  dust,  in  reverence  bow  ! 

Ancient  of  Days,  thou  speakest  from  above  ! 

Thy  right  hand  wields  the  bolt  of  terror  now. 

That  hand  which  scatters  peace  and  joy  and  love. 

Almighty  !  trembling  like  a  timid  child, 

1  luar  thy  awful  voice  !     Alarmed,  afraid, 

I  >.M   til."  flashes  of  thy  lightning  wiM, 

And  in  the  very  grave  would  hide  my  head  ! 

Dmitriev. 


INTRODUCTION.  49 

Solemnity  is  usually  of  slight  or  moderate  force,  slow  move- 
ment, low  pitch,  median  stress,  pure  quality,  moderate  or  large 
volume,  short  slides,  mostly  falling.     Thus  :  — 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain,  ^ 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er  ; 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there  ! 

Mrs.  Cecil  Frances  Alexander. 

Seriousness  is  usually  of  moderate  force,  but  sometimes 
loud,  sometimes  soft ;  rather  slow  movement ;  low  pitch ; 
slightly  median  stress,  sometimes  initial;  pure  quality;  mod- 
erate volume  ;  moderate  slides,  mostly  falling.     Thus  :  — 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago,  our  fathers  brought  forth  upon  this 
continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty  and  dedicated  to  the  proposi- 
tion that  all  men  are  created  ej^ual.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil 
war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedi- 
cated, can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war. 
We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  the  final  resting-place  of  those 
who  have  given  their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  —  Lincoln. 

Reverence  unites  fear,  respect,  and  esteem.  It  differs  but 
little  from  solemnity  in  its  expression.  The  pitch  may  be  a 
little  higher,  the  volume  a  little  larger,  the  movement  faster, 
and  the  slides  oftener  rising.     Thus  :  — 

Venerable  men  !  You  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  former  genera- 
tion. Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your  lives  that  you  might 
behold  this  joyous  day.  —  Websteii. 

HouuoH  chills  and  paralyzes.  It  is  usually  of  soft  force, 
very  low  pitch,  very  slow  movement,  slight  median  stress, 
sometimes  tremulous ;  impure,  guttural  quality ;  usually  large 
Tolume  ;  short  falling  slides,  or  none.  This  combination  of  ele- 
ments tends  to  the  monotone.  Thus  the  ghost  of  the  murdered 
king  in  "  Hamlet  "  :  — 


50  THE  SIXTff  READER. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand. 

Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  despatched  ; 

Cut  off  in  the  very  blossoms  of  ray  sin, 

Unhouseled,  disappointed,  unaneled  ; 

No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 

With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head  ! 

O,  horrible  !    O,  horrible  !     Most  horrible  ! 

SUAKESPKARE. 

Remorse,  when  great,  is  usually  of  loud  convulsive  force, 
but  sometimes  suppressed ;  quick  movement,  with  irregular  in- 
tervals ;  high  pitch,  sometimes  moderate  or  low ;  impure  qual- 
ity»  guttuml,  with  sobbing  or  sighing ;  small  volume,  some- 
times moderate  ;  final  stress,  with  tremor ;  moderate  8lidei>, 
mostly  falling.     Thus:  — 

Oh,  my  offence  is  rank  ;  it  siu<il-.  to  lu'aven  ! 
It  hath  the  primal  elilciit  curse  ujxm  it, 
A  brother's  murder  !  —  Pray  can  1  not. 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will : 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent 

0,  wretched  state  !    O  bosom,  bhick  as  death  ! 

O  limed  soul,  that,  struggling  to  be  free. 

Art  more  engaged  !     Help,  angels,  make  assay  ! 

Shakespeare. 

Despair  is  usually  of  slight  force,  slow  movement,  low 
pitch ;  moderately  pure  quality,  slightly  aspirated ;  small  vol- 
ume ;  tremulous  stress ;  short  slides,  mostly  filing.     Thus  :  — 

Man.  I  am  now  a  man  of  despair,  and  am  shut  up  in  it,  as  in  this 
iron  cage.     I  cannot  get  out ;  O,  now  I  cannot. 

Chuistian.    But  how  earnest  thou  into  this  condition  ? 

Man.  I  left  off  to  watch  and  be  sober ;  I  laid  the  reins  upon  the 
neck  of  my  lusts  ;  I  sinned  against  the  light  of  the  word,  and  the  good- 
ness of  God  ;  I  have  grieved  the  Spirit,  and  he  is  gone  ;  I  tempted  the 
Devil,  and  he  is  come  to  me  ;  I  have  provoked  God  to  anger,  and  he  has 
left  me  ;  I  have  so  hardened  my  heart  that  I  cannot  repent. 

Then  said  Christian  to  the  Interpreter,  "  But  are  there  no  hopes  for 
such  a  man  as  this?"  "Ask  him,"  said  the  Interpreter.  Then  said 
Christian,  *'  Is  there  no  hope,  but  you  must  be  kept  in  the  iron  cage  of 
despair  ? " 


INTRODUCTION.  51 

Man.   No,  none  at  all. 

Christian.    Why,  the  Son  of  the  Blessed  is  very  pitifuL 

Man.  I  have  crucified  him  to  myself  afresh ;  I  have  despised  his 
person  ;  I  have  despised  his  righteousness  ;  I  have  counted  his  blood 
an  unholy  thing  ;  I  have  done  despite  to  the  spirit  of  grace  :  there- 
fore I  shut  myself  out  of  all  the  promises,  and  there  now  remains  to  me 
nothing  but  threatenings,  dreadful  threutenings,  fearful  threatenings, 
of  certain  judgment  and  fiery  indignation  which  shall  devour  me  as  an 
adversary. 

Christian.    For  what  did  you  bring  yourself  into  this  condition  ? 

Man.  For  the  lusts,  pleasures,  and  profits  of  this  world,  in  the  en- 
joyment of  which  I  did  then  promise  myself  much  delight ;  but  now 
every  one  of  those  things  also  bites  me  and  gnaws  me  like  a  burning 
worm. 

Christian.    But  canst  thou  not  now  repent  and  turn  ? 

Man.  God  hath  denied  me  repentance.  His  word  gives  me  no  en- 
couragement to  believe  ;  yea,  himself  hath  shut  me  up  in  this  iron  cage, 
nor  can  all  the  men  in  the  world  let  me  out  !  0  Eternity  !  Eternity ! 
How  shall  I  grapple  with  the  misery  that  I  must  meet  with  in  eternity  ? 

Then  said  the  Interpreter  to  Christian,  "  Let  this  man's  misery  be  re- 
membered by  thee,  and  be  an  everlasting  caution  to  thee." 

"  Well,"  said  Christian,  "  this  is  fearful  !  God  help  me  to  watch  and 
be  sober,  and  to  pray  that  I  may  shun  the  cause  of  this  man's  misery." 

BUNYAN. 

Surprise  is  usually  loud,  high,  quick  and  slow  alternately, 
aspirated,  of  expulsive  initial  stress,  small  volume,  long  slides. 
Thus  Horatio  tells  Hamlet  of  the  apparition  of  the  latter's  de- 
ceased father :  — 

Hou.  My  lord,  I  think  1  saw  Liiu  yL-slLinight. 

Ham.  Saw  !     Who  ? 

HoR.  My  lord,  the  king,  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king,  my  father  ? 

For  God's  love,  let  me  hear  ! 
But  where  was  this  ? 

HoR.     My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watched. 

Ham.    Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

HoR.  My  lord,  I  did. 

Ham.     T         IV  strange. 


52  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

Hob.     As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  't  is  true  ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty 
To  let  you  know  of  it 

Ham.    Indeed,  indeed,  sin,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  yon  the  watch  to-night  f 

HoR.    We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.    Arm«d,  say  you  f 

Hob.    Armed,  my  lord.  -^makespraui. 

WuNDER  is  usually  of  moderate  torce,  sometimes  loud ; 
moderate  pitch;  irregular  movement,  slow  and  sometimes 
quick ;  aspinUed  quality,  sometimes  nearly  pure ;  expulsive 
initial  stTess ;  long  slides ;  small  volume,  sometimes  moderate 
or  large,  it  being  more  or  less  proportioned  to  the  supposed 
magnitude  of  the  thing  wondered  at  Thus  Alonzo,  Gonzalo, 
Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  others,  hearing  supernatural  music  and 
seeing  unearthly  shapes,  express  their  amazement :  — 

Alon.   What  harmony  is  this  f    My  good  friends,  haric ! 

GoN.    Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 

Alon.   (live  us  kind  keepers,  Heavens  !  What  were  these  ? 

Sebas.   a  living  drollery  !    Now  1  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ;  one  phGenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I  '11  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me. 
And  I  '11  be  sworn  't  is  true.  Shakespeare. 

The  foregoing  quotations  afford  tolerable  illustrations  of  the 
different  emotions  considered  separately.  Oftener,  however,  the 
feelings  are  more  or  less  mingled.  In  such  cases  the  result- 
ing vocal  expression  may  partake  of  the  leading  character- 
istics of  all  Usually  one  ingredient  predominates,  and  this 
will  give  the  chief  tone  or  color  to  the  compound.  (See  on 
this  subject  Professor  Mark  Bailey's  remarks  in  his  introduc- 
tory treatise  in  Hillanl's  Sixth  Reader,  pages  Ixxiv,  Ixxv; 
also  his  admirable  analysis  on  pages  Ixxv-lxxix  of  the  same.) 

From  the  foregoing  we  deduce  the  following  directions  for 
elocutionary  analysis :  — 


INTRODUCTION.  53 

1.  Ascertain  the  prevailing  tone  or  spirit  of  the  piece,  and 
adhere  to  it,  adapting  the  elements  of  vocal  expression  to  it 
wherever  you  perceive  no  cause  for  deviation. 

2.  Ascertain  the  deviations  from  the  general  cliai-acter  of  the 
piece,  and  adapt  the  elements  of  vocal  expression  to  the  spirit 
of  the  individual  sentences  and  worda  Be  careful,  where 
mental  states  or  acts  are  blended,  to  give  each  its  due  repre- 
sentation. 


We  subjoin  for  illustration  the  following  commencement  of 
an  examination  of  the  stanzas  preliminary  to  Milton's  "  Hymn 
on  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,"  as  showing  a  method  of 
elocutionary  analysis.  (See  "  Masterpieces  in  English  Litera- 
ture," 1st  volume,  pp.  192,  193.) 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  Maid  and  Virgin  Mother  born. 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring  ; 
For  80  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 

Tliat  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release. 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  })erpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  insufferable. 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
\Vherewith  he  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 
To  bit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside  ;  and  here,  with  us  to  be, 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Aflbnl  a  present  to  the  Infant  God  T  — 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain. 

To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  alxide, 

Now,  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod. 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  tJie  spangled  host  keep  wat«li  in  squadrons  bright  ? 


54  THE  SIXTH  READER 

See  how,  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road. 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odors  sweet  I 
O,  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ! 
Have  thou  the  honor  first  thy  Lord  to  greet. 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  choir 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hallowed  fire  ! 

The  prevailing  to;ie  of  this  piece  is  serious.  Hence  it  must, 
ibr  the  most  part,  be  read  with  moderate  force,  somewhat 
slowly,  in  a  rather  low  pitch,  with  slightly  median  stress, 
pure  quality,  moderate  volume,  and  moderate  slides. 

The  first  stanza,  beginning,  *•  This  is  the  month,"  has  joy 
as  well  as  seriousness.  Joy  predominates.  Hence  it  should 
be  read  with  rather  loud  force,  rather  brisk  movement,  rather 
high  pitch,  very  pure  quality,  mtlici  full  volume,  decided 
median  stress,  rather  long  slidi- 

The  next  stanza,  beginning,  **  That  glorious  form,"  has,  in 
the  firet  four  lines,  deep  admiration  blending  equally  reverence 
and  love.  Hence  those  lines  should  be  read  with  moderate 
force,  moderate  pitch,  rather  slow  movement,  very  pure  quality, 
rather  lai:ge  volume,  full  median  stress,  moderate  slides. 

The  next  three  lines,  beginning,  **  He  kid  aside,"  have  ten- 
derness combined  with  reverence;  tenderness  preponderating 
ill  tlie  first  two,  and  reverence  in  the  last.  Hence  to  be  read 
with  slight  force,  slow  movement,  moderate  pitch,  median 
stress,  very  pure  quality,  moderate  volume,  short  slides.  Head 
it  aloud.  P'-."  "  ■1  in  this  manner  with  the  analysis  of  every 
stanza.  

The  voice  is  the  most  perfect  expression  of  the  soul.  Sweet- 
ness, purity,  integrity,  earnestness,  delicacy,  —  these,  in  the 
lapse  of  time  and  with  judicious  training  of  the  vocal  organs, 
will  come  to  characterize  spontaneously  the  commonest  utter- 
ance of  their  possessor,  and  impart  a  charm  that  mere  art 
can  never  attain.  There  have  been  elocutionists  that  Jiave 
labored   in  vain  for  scores  of  years   to   perfect  their  voices. 


INTRODUCTION.  ..5 

In  their  public  efforts  they  raay  have  been  apparently  suc- 
cessful ;  yet  in  the  unguanled  moments  of  conversation,  there 
has  often  been  a  marked  and  painful  lack  of  these  outward 
signs  of  inward  beauty.  So  true  is  the  maxim  of  the  ancient 
rhetoricians,  ^'  None  but  a  good  man  can  be  a  perfect  orator." 


GESTURE    IN    ELOCUTION. 

Before  proceeding  to  treat  specifically  of  gesture,  it  seems 
appropriate  to  say  a  word  of  attitude  and  of  facial  expression. 

A  stooping  form,  with  round  shoulders  and  sunken  chest, 
conveys  the  impression  of  weakness,  discouragement,  coward- 
ice, or  excessive  humility.  Such  a  posture  may  be  appropriate 
enough  in  some  circumstances;  as  in  uttering  the  follow- 
ing:— 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  nian, 
Whose  trembling  limbs  have  brought  him  to  your  door  ; 

Wliose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span. 
0,  give  reUef,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 


Fio.  1. 


Fio.  2. 


WeakneM,  etc. 


You  «ool8  of  geese,"  etc. 


56  THE  SIXTH   HEADKIL 

Very  differffit  is  tJie  attitude  of  the  bold  combatant.  Thus 
Merivale,  the  liistorian,  represents  Kome  as  "squaring  with 
the  world."  Catiline  takes  the  posture  of  the  pugilist,  when 
be  thus  defies  Cicero  and  the  lioman  Senate  :  — 

But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you.     Here  I  fling 

t laired  and  full  defiance  in  your  face.  Croly. 

Similar,  but  even  more  fierce  and  disdainful,  is  the  bearing 
of  CoholanuB  towards  his  soldieis  who  have  been  cowardly  in 
battle:  — 

You  shames  of  Bome  !  .  .  .  .  You  souls  of  geeae, 

That  bear  the  shapes  of  men,  how  have  yon  ran 

From  slaves  that  apes  would  beat  ?  .  .  .  . 

All  hurt  behind  !  backs  red,  and  faces  pale 

With  flight  and  agaed  fear !     Mend,  and  chajge  home  ; 

Or,  by  the  fires  of  heaven,  I  *11  leave  the  foe 

And  make  my  wan  on  yoo  I  Shakespeabe. 

Two  rules  may  be  given  in  regard  to  attitude :  First,  let 
the  outer  express  the  inner.  Second,  let  ungraceful  postures 
be  avoided.  

Of  facial  expression,  we  may  remark  as  follows  :  — 

Attention  slightly  raises  the  eyebrows. 

Admiration  raises  the  brows,  opens  the  eyes,  and  brings  a 
smile. 

Surprise  raises  the  brows,  and  opens  the  eyes  and  mouth. 

Grief  wrinkles  the  brows,  draws  up  their  inner  ends,  and 
draws  down  the  comers  of  the  mouth. 

Disdain  jiartly  closes  the  eyes,  and  slightly  turns  the  head, 
as  if  the  despised  person  were  not  worth  looking  at.  It  may 
also  frown,  if  the  feeling  be  strong,  and  may  elevate  the  nose 
and  upper  lip. 

Anger  closes  the  mouth  firmly,  holds  the  body  erect,  shuts 
the  teeth,  and  clinches  the  fists.  It  strongly  frowns,  and  may 
even  show  the  teeth. 

Determination  closes  the  mouth  tightly.  It  may  clinch  the 
fists.     Frowning  is  tlio  natural  expression   of  some  difficulty 


TN'TRnnr^rrrnN'.  57 

encountered,  or  sometlmig  dLsagreeublo  experienced,  which  ex- 
cit«»  a  feeling  of  hostility. 

One  rule  may  suffice  in  facial  expression :  Let  the  face  show 
the  feeling  that  prevails  at  the  instant ;  let  it  never  show  the 
opposite,  except  for  comic  effect.  (See  Darwin  on  the  "  Ex- 
pression of  the  Emotions  in  Man  and  the  Lower  Animals.") 


Gesture  may  be  defined  as  a  bodily  movement  to  illustrate, 
express,  or  enforce  some  mental  act  or  state. 

The  question  may  be  asked  at  the  outset,  Should  the  words 
be  made  to  conform  to  the  gesture,  or  the  gesture  to  the  words  1 
Neither.  Each  should  be  exactly  adapted  to  the  thought.  Then 
the  two  former  will  substantially  harmonize.  (As  to  the  coin- 
cidence in  time  between  gestures  and  words,  see  the  following 
jmragraph.) 

I.    GESTURES  OF  PLACR 

The  first  step  towards  any  gesture  must  obviously  be  a  con- 
ception in  the  mind.  Instantly  the  imagination  assigns  a 
place  to  the  thing  conceived.  Without  perceptible  interval, 
the  eye  glances  thither,  the  face  may  turn  in  that  direction, 
the  whole  body  may  share  in  the  movement.  The  hand  may 
be  lifted  and  carried  towards  the  locality,  and  perhaps  the 
index  finger  may  accurately  point  it  out.  Lastly,  when  fit 
wortls  have  been  chosen,  the  voice  names  the  object.  So 
slight  is  the  interval  between  any  two  successive  steps  of  this 
process,  that  often  all  seem  to  be  simultaneous.  Thus  Lord 
Chatham  alludes  to  a  painting,  and  locates  it  by  a  simulta- 
neous glance  of  his  pyo,  swoop  of  the  arm,  and  pointing  of  the 
finger : — 

From  the  tai»tstry  tiuu  adorns  lijese  walls,  the  immortal  ancestor  of 
the  noble  lonl  frowns  with  indignation  at  this  disgrace  of  liis  country  ! 

It  matters  not  whether  the  object  be  present  or  absent,  visi- 
ble or  invisible.  A  speaker  of  vivid  imagination  will  give  it 
a  place,  and  treat  it  as  if  actually  seen,  or,  at  least,  as  if 
really  occupying  some  determinate  position. 


58 


rnr  -jxtii  ih.ader 


The  slightest  gesture  oi  place  is  a  glance  of  the  eye  in  the 
direction  of  the  object  as  located  by  the  speaker.  The  next 
in  extent  is  a  turning  of  the  head.  The  next  is  a  motion 
of  the  hand  thitherward,  the  finger,  perhaps,  jwinting.  The 
whole  body  may  turn.     Both  hands  may  sometimes  be  used. 

A  small  object,  occupying  but  a  point  in  the  speaker's  real 
or  imagined  field  of  vision,  is  singled  out  with  the  index 
finger;  a  larger  objw-t  with  tho  wlii.lo  liand  extended;  a  still 


P10.S. 


PlO.4. 


That  star. 


'  That  constellation." 


larger,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand ;  an  object  coveringTnost  of 
the  field  of  view,  with  a  sweep  of  both  hands.     Thus  : — 

Do  you  see  that  star  ? 

Do  you  see  that  constellation  (the  Great  Bear)  ? 

See  yonder  aurora  borealis  (covering  perhaps  a  quarter  of  the  northem 
sky). 

Behold  this  vast  galaxy  (stretching  both  ways  from  the  zenith  to  the 
horizon). 

For  further  illustration,  note  that,  if  a  large  expanse  of  ocean 
be  the  object  mentioned,  a  sweep  of  the  hand  and  arm,  or 
even  a  glance  towards  it,  may  be  sufficient ;  but  a  single  ship 


INTIiULL'unuy. 


Flo.  6. 


Yonder  aurora.' 


"Til is  vos^  qalaxy.' 


in  the  midst  of  that  broad  field,  or  a  distant  lighthouse  upon 
its  verge,  would  generally  require  to  be  more  accurately  desig- 
nated by  the  index  finger. 

An  orator  uses  the  words  yonder  heavens.  It  is  sufficient, 
l^erhaps,  merely  to  glance  upward,  or  to  wave  the  hand  out- 
ward and  up  towards  that  part  of  the  sky.  But  if  the  words 
be  yonder  star,  his  finger  will  point  it  out  with  some  accuracy, 
as  already  shown. 

If  the  object  be  an  extensive  forest,  in  sight  of  the  speaker 
and  occupying  a  great  portion  of  the  landscape,  a  gesture  of 
the  whole  hand  and  arm,  moving  so  as  to  direct  attention  to 
it  as  a  large  object,  will  suffice.  But  if  it  be  a  single  tree,  the 
finger  will  naturally  point  it  out. 

When  Erskine,  quoting  from  the  supposed  speech  of  an 
Indian  chief,  exclaims,  — 

Who  is  it  that  causes  this  river  to  rise  in  the  high  mountains,  and 
to  empty  itself  into  the  ocean  ? 

on  the  words,  who  is  it,  the  speaker  looks  around,  as  if  to  see 
where  the  person  inquired  for  may  be  found.     Both  the  eye 


60  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

and  the  liand  indicate  the  reBpective  locations  of  the  river,  the 
niountiiins,  and  tlie  ocean. 

When  Mdcbetli,  in  his  soliloquy,  says,  — 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me  ? 

there  is  a  most  intense  gaze,  and  the  hand  is  likely  to  be 
unconsciously  stretclied  towards  the  point  which  the  dagger 
seems  to  occupy. 

The  more  vivid  the  imagination  of  the  speaker,  and  the 
more  absorbed  he  is  in  his  subject,  the  more  numerous  and 
the  more  striking  will  such  gestures  naturally  be. 

Our  first  class  of  gestures,  then,  are  gestures  of  place.  They 
answer  the  question,  where  1  They  are  simple  and  easily 
made,  and  they  add  life  and  picturesqueness  to  discourse. 
They  are  followed  without  effort,  and  they  often  assist  won- 
derfully in  the  presentation  of  a  subject. 

They  are  sometimes  used  unnecessarily ;  as  where  a  -pcakLr, 
.iddressing  an  audience  of  medical  gentlemen,  places  his  hand 
on  his  heart,  as  if  they  needed  to  be  informed  of  the  locality 
of  that  organ !  • 

Children  and  uncultivated  people  require  more  of  tliese  ges- 
tures than  would  a  body  like  the  Supreme  Court,  or  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States.  There  is  a  great  difference  in 
the  extent  to  which  different  speakere  employ  them. 

Something  will  depend  upon  temperament.  A  man  of  light, 
active,  nervous  organization  will  use  far  more  gestures  of  this 
kind,  and  indeed  of  every  kind,  than  one  who  is  slow,  heavy, 
phlegmatic.  Clay  would  gesticulate  more  than  Webster;  a 
demonstrative  Frenclmian  more  than  a  reticent  Englishman ; 
a  vivacious  Italian  more  than  a  solid  Dutchman. 

Some  applications  of  these  principles  may  especially  be 
noted.  If  there  be  a  change  in  the  position  of  the  object 
while  the  mind  is  fixed  upon  it ;  for  instance,  if  it  be  a  bird 
flying,  or  a  tmin  of  cars  swiftly  nio\'ing,  or  other  object  con- 
ceived of  as  making  an  extensive  change  in  place;  the  eye,  the 


INTRODUCTION. 


f.l 


hand,  the  head,  the  upper  part  of  the  body,  and  perhaps  the 
whole  person  will  sympathetically  tend  to  join  in  that  move- 
ment. In  the  following  from  Bryant,  the  index  linger  may 
move  as  if  to  keep  pace  with  the  water-fowl  sailing  along  the 
sky  :  — 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Miglit  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  i^ainted  on  the  crimson  sky, 
Thy  figure  floats  along  ! 


Fio.  7. 


Fio.  9. 


** Tliy  figure  floats  along."     '*  In  my  place  here,"  etc.  "Or  elsewhere." 

Again,  presfent  is  directly  in  front  and  near  the  speaker ; 
absent  i.s  off  at  one  side ;  past^  is  behind  ;  future  is  bc^fore. 
Thus  Webster  says,  — 

When  I  shall  be  found,  in  my  plare  horo  in  tin  S. natc.  or  fNowlif^rp, 
to  sneer  at  public  merit,  etc. 

Burke,  at  the  close  of  his  final  speech  against  Hastings, 
might  have  so  located  the  past  and  future  :  — 

My  lords,  at  this  awful  close,  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain  and  surronnded  hy  thorn.    I  attest  the  retiriiui,    I   attt  -*   *' 
advancing  generations,  ptr. 


62  THE   SIXTH    HEADER, 

J''urthenii( 're,  it  is  iiiipui;  uwi  all  spiritual 

conceptions  are   based    upon  Things   in   the 

world  of  mind,  moral  qualities,  ideas,  cannot  be  expressed, 
perhaps  cannot  be  conceivetl,  except  by  the  aid  of  types, 
figures,  symbols,  analogies  supplied  by  the  world  of  matter. 
Something  of  the  original  meaning  clings  to  the  word  in  its 
derived  sense.  Thus  tpirit  means  breathy  and  we  rarely  lose 
altogether  the  notion  of  breath,  air,  wind,  when  we  use  the 
word ;  sublimity  means  height ;  heaven  is  heavtd  (heav-ai) 
high  ;  climax  is  ladder;  towering  is  projecting  aloft  like  a 
tower ;  base  is  low  ;  disgust  is  offence  to  taste  ;  empyrean  is  the 
supposed  fiery  boundary  of  the  universe  \  transcendent  is  climb- 
inff  higher ;  lofty  is  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  lyft,  the  air,  and 
means  up  in  the  air;  humility  is  from  humusy  the  ground; 
supernal  is  from  super^  above  j-  infernal  is  from  infer^  infra^ 
below.  We  alvrays  think  of  the  angels  as  above,  of  the  devils 
as  below ;  as  Poe  sings,  — 

Neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  s.i. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

Hence  it  comes  that  moral  qualities  are  assigned  "a  local 
habitation."  All  that  is  lofty,  sublime,  hopeful,  high,  exalted, 
noble,  angelic,  glorious,  beautiful,  august,  eminent,  celestial, 
superior,  supernal,  splendid,  royal,  soaring,  radiant,  elevated, 
cheering,  inspiring,  adorable,  —  in  a  word,  all  noble  ideas, 
sentiments,  and  emotions,  lift  the  soul,  the  eye,  the  hand ;  and 
they  call  for  high  gestures. 

On  the  other  hand,  all  that  is  low,  base,  earthly,  mean, 
dirty,  foul,  brutal,  beastly,  contemptible,  grovelling,  despica- 
ble, infamous,  infernal,  devilish,  crawling,  snaky,  sneaking, 
filthy,  shameful,  abject,  pi^^^ifiil,  disgusting,  vile,  beggarly,  in- 
significant, —  in  a  wokI,  aP^  ^noble  ideas,  sentiments,  and 
emotions,  lower  the  soul,  the  eye,  the  hand ;  and  they  call  for 
low  gestures. 


iMTiiuifC  f  ilu.\ 


63 


It  vdW  be  a  fair  corollary,  that  all  intermediate  qualities, 
such  as  are  suggested  by  the  words  passable,  common,  me- 
dium, moderate,  average,  ordinary,  middling,  usual,  —  and,  in 
general,  all  qualities  and  allusions  which  do  not  clearly  require 
high  or  low  gestures,  should,  if  expressed  at  all  by  gestures, 
be  expressed  by  those  near  a  medium  elevation.  This  class 
comprises  perhaps  the  majority  of  intellectual  conceptions. 

Unless,  therefore,  the  speaker  is  forcibly  impressed  by  the 
significjince  of  a  word,  as  denoting  elevation  of  thought  and 
sentiment  or  the  opposite,  and  so  demanding  an  elevated 
gesture  or  the  opposite,  he  will  do  well  to  avoid  extremes. 

The  following  combines  both  the  hi^h  and  the  low  :  — 


If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bacon  shined, 
The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind. 


Pope. 


Fio.  10. 


Fio.  11. 


Wisest,  brightest.  • 


Meanest  of  uumkind." 


On  vnsest  and  brightest,  of  course,  the  looks  and  the  action 
are  elevated  ;  on  meanest  they  are  much  depressed. 

According  to  the  foregoing  principles,  superlative  excellence 
would  be  expressed  by  a  gesture  reaching  far  towards  the  zenith  ; 
and  extraordinary  demerit,  by  a  gesture  that  shoiUd  carry  the 
niin<l  to  the  dust  at  one's  feet. 


04  THL    .  ...  .  ,1    I,'i:AI>En. 

The  following  extract  IVom  Youngs  "  >iight  Thoughts  "  will 
serve  to  illustrate  further  these  points  :  — 

ll)\v  poor,  bow  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 

Tho  word  poor,  meaning  hnmhle,  weak,  naturally  suggests 
a  gesture  below  the  horizontal  plane.  The  worrl  rich  requires 
a  gesture  a  little  higher.  The  word  abject  may  have  a  low 
gesture,  as  if  calling  attention  to  the  very  ground.  On  the 
word  auffuti  the  look  is  elevated,  and  the  hand  may  be  raiseil 
to  a  position  of  about  forty-five  degrees  above  the  horizontal 
No  gestures  shouM  bo  used  here,  unless  tho  utterance  is  very 
slow.  The  elevation  and  depression  of  tho  eye  and  of  tho  face 
may  suffice. 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such  ! 
Who  ceutretl  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes. 
From  different  natures  mar^'ellonsly  mixed. 
Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds. 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain, 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity. 

At  nothing  the  eye,  hand,  and  (acQ  are  downcast  At  He 
and  at  Deity  they  are  uplifteil. 

A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorpt ; 
Though  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine  ; 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ; 
An  heir  of  glor}%  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 

An  heir  of  $lory  requires  the  elevation  of  the  eye  and  the 
hand.  (Fig.  1 2).  A  frail  child  of  dust  requires  that  the  look 
and  gesture  be  depressed.     (Fig.  13.) 

Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 

On  the  word  helpless  tlie  gesture  again  is  one  of  weakness 
and  humility,  —  a  low  gesture.  On  the  word  immortal,  even 
if  the  hand  remain  low,  the  eye  and  the  face  should  be  raised. 
The  utterance  must  all  the  while  be  very  slow. 


INTRODUCTION. 


65 


Fio.  12. 


Fio.  13. 


"Heir  of  glory."    (p.  64.) 


"  PraU  child  of  dust "    (p.  64. ) 


Abstract  qualities,  when  successively  enumerated,  may  be 
imagined  to  occupy  different  locations,  and  may  be  alluded  to 
by  corresponding  gestures  of  place,  thus  :  — 

What  would  content  you  ?  Talent  ?  No.  Enterprise  ?  No.  Repu- 
tation T     No.     Courage  ?    No.     Virtne !    No.    Patriotism  ?    No.    Holi- 

1 1(..  1..  Fia.  16. 


••Talent?    No. 


EnterpriMt    No. 


Hoputation?    No." 


66 


THE  SIXTH  READER. 


neasf    No.     The  man  whom  you  would  select,  must  possess  not  one, 
but  all  of  these. 

On  the  word  talent  the  gesture  might  be  directly  to  the 
front,  as  if  talent  were  located  between  the  speaker  and  the 
audience  in  fmnt  of  him.  On  the  word  enterprise  the  hand 
may  gesticiUate  a  little  to  the  right  of  where  the  gesture  was 
made  on  taUnty  as  if  enterprise  lay  beside  talent  and  not  f;ir 


Fio.  17. 


Fic.  IS 


Fio.  19. 


a 

k 

v-^- 

P 

m 

Virtue  ? 

No. 

.. 

"Patriotism? 

No." 

"Courage?    No." 

distant  from  it.  On  the  word  reputation  the  hand  may  be 
carried  still  farther  in  the  oblique  direction,  as  if  reputation 
were  in  the  third  place.  On  the  word  courage  a  similar  ges- 
ture to  the  right  of  the  gestiire  on  reputation  would  mark 
out  its  locality  as  the  fourth  in  the  series.  On  the  word  virtue 
another  gesture  still  farther  to  the  right,  making  it  the  fifth 
place  in  the  series.  So  Tv4th  patriotism  and  holiness  succes- 
sively. (Fig.  20.)  On  the  word  one  the  gesture  may  be 
directly  to  the  front,  and  with  the  index  finger.  On  the 
word  all  a  wave  of  the  hand  from  the  front  around  to  the 
right,  so  as  to  include  all  the  qualities  that  have  been  enum- 
erated in  their  respective  locations. 


INTRODUCTION. 


67 


Fio-ao. 


Fio.  21. 


'  Holiness 


(pp.  e.-i,  66.) 


A  Climax. 


Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be  better  to  locate  the  different 
qualities  one  above  the  other,  marking  talent  by  the  hand  at 
the  height  of  the  elbow  or  a  little  lower,  and  letting  the  hand 
rise  successively  on  the  other  qualities,  thus  making  a  climax, 
holiness  carrying  the  hand  high  toward  the  zenith.  The  posi- 
tions of  the  hand  in  the  consecutive  gestures  need  not  be  in  a 
vertical  plane ;  they  may  better  rise  obliquely  to  tlie  right. 

It  is  well  for  one  who  has  a  set  speech  to  deliver,  to  note 
carefully  beforehand  the  words  or  passages  where  gestures  of 
place  are  required  ;  and  to  conceive,  with  as  much  distinctness 
as  possible,  of  the  appropriate  situations  which  he  may,  for 
the  purposes  of  his  speech,  conceive  to  be  occupied  by  the  things 
alluded  to  or  described ;  just  as  a  painter,  in  drawing  a  land- 
scape, will  select  at  the  outset  the  points  to  which  he  wishes 
to  give  prominence,  or  which  form  the  basis  of  his  measure- 
ments, and  >vill  mark  their  relative  positions  on  the  canvas. 
Thus  the  prominent  points  of  the  picture  which  the  orator  has 
in  his  mind's  eye  will  at  once  be  reproduced  by  the  audience. 

The  following  piece  illustrates  principally  gestures  of  place. 
Circumstances  may  modify  their  number,  form,  and  extent. 


68 


\i>LlL 


Now  rest  for  the  wretched  :  the  long  day  is  paat, 

In  this  line  there  is  no  detiint<»  ronroption  of  any  particular 
location,  and  no  gesture  of  thai  kini  i>  n.  h  drl.  The  eye  is 
"  bent  on  vacancy/'  as  in  calm  meditation.  (See  Conventional 
Guturet,  p.  100.) 

And  night  on  yon  priion  dascendiii.  ^.  ... 

The  speaker  should  have  determined  befor*  hand,  for  the 
purposes  of  Uie  speech,  the  imaginary  direction  anl  distance 
of  this  prison  from  liimself  and  from  the  audience;  and  his 
face  should  be  turned  towards  it,  his  eye  should  seem  to  see 
it,  his  arm  may  be  extended,  and  his  liand,  if  not  his  finger, 
point  towards  it 


F10.SS. 


FlO.  23. 


Culm  nieilitation 


"  Vuii  iiisoii,"  etc. 


A  speaker  of  gr^at  vivi.ln<'>-  ^f  fancy  miudit  r-oncoivo  of 
night  n.<  an  atmosphere  of  darkne^  coming  down.  Perliaps 
he  wouM.  n't  innppmpriatoly.  follow  that  descending  move- 
ment I'V  l-w,Tin,L:  liis  fic-  (wliidi  niidil  liav.-  l.een  elevated 
to  an  aiiglt'  "f  al)..ut  l-")^)  and  ]iis  hand,  bringing  the  Irand. 
at  the  conrhi-ion  of  tlie  gesture,  into  the  position  in  Avliich 
it  Would  <rr\\\  t^i  rest  upon  the  in]a'_!n.-d  prison. 


IMRu  DUCT  ION. 


69 


Fig.  24. 


Fio.  25. 


"  Look  there  ' 


"  Who  flies  ?  ■ 


Now  lock  up  and  bolt.     Ha,  jailer  !  look  there  ! 

A  fugitive  slave  is  here  supposed  to  be  discovered  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  jail,  iii  the  act  of  running  away  from  con- 
finement. The  speaker  should  have  predetermined  the  direc- 
tion of  this  fliglit,  and  should  have  so  arranged  in  his  mind 
the  points  of  the  compass  as  to  give  ample  and  convenient 
space  for.  the  actions  which  are  to  follow.  The  jailer  is  con- 
ceived of  as  being  at  the  prison,  and  his  situation  attracts  for 
an  instant  the  mind,  the  eye,  and  the  hand,  at  the  moment 
of  the  call  to  him ;  but  these  are  immediately  fixed  again  upon 
the  fugitive. 

Who  flies  like  a  wild  bird  escaped  from  the  snare  ? 

This  line  requires  the  gesture  imitating  and  following  the 
motion,  as  indicated  in  Fig.  7.  The- eye,  the  arm,  the  hand, 
and  the  finger  slowly  move,  the  finger  moving  in  a  curve,  to 
keep  pace  with  the  runaway,  both  eye  and  hand  being  intently 
directed  to    '  he  motion  may  be  conceived  ns  coming 


70 


THt    .-iXiii    READER. 


from  the  speaker's  right,  and  approaching  a  point  at  some  dis- 
tance in  front. 

A  woman  1  a  sUve  I    Up !  out  in  ponuit, 

Sudden  surprise  raises  the  hands  and  opens  them,  as  if  to 
be  in  readiness  to  act.     It  also  raises  the  brows,  and  opens 

FttV  SB^  Pio.  27. 


•*  A  wou^i. :  ^ 


Up  i  ont  in  ptmoit ! 


the  eyes  and  mouth.  A  forcible  wave  of  the  hand  on  the 
word  o%U  may  direct  attention  to  the  open  field  which  the 
slave  is  traversing.    This  gesture  combines  place  and  emphasis. 

While  Unger  some  gleams  of  the  day  ; 

On  the  words  linger  some  gleams  a  momentary  glance  at  the 
western  horizon  or  around  the  field  might  not  be  inappro- 
priate ;  but  it  seems  hardly  necessary. 

Ho  !  rally  thy  hunters  with  halloo  and  shout. 
To  chase  down  the  game,  —  and  away  ! 

A  hurried  sweep  of  the  hand,  so  as  to  include  in  imagina- 
tion the  points  where  the  hunters  are,  the  hand  moving  in  its 


INTRODUCTION. 


Fio.  28. 


Fio.  29. 


"Hoi  rally  thy  limit*rs."    (p.  70.) 


"  And  away  I "    (p.  70.) 


swoep  around  (or  returning)  so  as  to  finally  rest  upon  the  place 
where  the  fugitive  is  supposed  to  be  running,  may  be  fitting, 
though  not  important. 

A  bold  race  for  freedom  !     On,  fugitive,  on  ! 

No  gesture  of  the  hand  is  needed  in  the  first  half  of  this 
line ;  but  the  eye  should  be  very  intently  fixed  on  the  moving 
object,  and  the  face  should  be  a  little  elevated  for  boldness. 

At  the  words  On,  fugitive^  on!  the  hand  may  make  an 
outward  sweep  from  a  position  in  front  of  the  breast  to  the 
direction  in  which  the  speaker  would  urge  the  fugitive  to  flee. 
1  l-aven  help  but  the  right,  and  thy  freedom  is  won. 

At  the  word  heaven  an  instantaneous  upward  glance,  the 
eye  descending  to  the  fugitive  at  the  words  is  won.     (Fig.  30.) 

How  eager  she  drinks  the  free  air  of  the  plains  ! 
Every  limb,  every  nerve,  every  fibre,  she  strains. 

No  gesture  of  location  is  necessary  here,  but  the  glance  is 
riveted  on  her. 


72  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

From  Columbia's  glorious  Capitol 
Columbia's  daughter  flees 

Here  the  hand  should  be  extended  at  the  word   Capitol 

towards  the  point  where  the  national  Capitol  is  for  the  instant 

imagined  to  stand.     Before  the  hand  is  dropped,  the  face, 

having  been  turned  for  a  moment  towards  the  Capitol,  reverts 

to  the  fugitive. 

To  the  sanctuary  God  hath  given. 

The  right  hand  having  been  used  to  locate  the  Capitol,  the 
letl  liand  will  naturally  be  extended  towards  the  sanctuary,  or 
the  right  hand  may  be  carried  across  the  body  towards  it. 
(Fig.  32.)  The  lace  turns  to  the  same  point,  and  on  the  word 
God  the  eye  glances  instantaneously  to  heaven. 

The  sheltering  forest-trees. 

The  hand  may  still  remain  pointing  towards  the  refuge  of 
forest-trees,  while  the  speaker  is  pronouncing  the  last  line ;  and 
after  the  glance  towards  the  zenith  on  the  word  God,  the  face 
and  eyes  are  turned  in  the  same  direction  as  the  hand. 


Fio.sa 


Pio.  SL 


Heaven  help,"  etc.    (p.  71.) 


■  Columbia's  glorious  Cai>itol. 


ryTRODUCTWX. 


73 


Now  she  treads  tiif  loiig  unuge,  —joy  lighteth  her  eye  I 

In  the  utterance  of  this  line  the  gaze  should  be  earnestly 
lixed  upon  the  moving  object,  the  linger  pointing  it  out,  the 
linger,  the  face,  and  the  eyes  turning  very  slowly  to  keep  pace 
with  its  motion.  ** 

Beyond  her  the  dense  wood  and  the  darkening  sky  : 

At  the  word  beyond  the  look  is  directed  to  the  forest;  and 
instantly,  after  the  utterance  of  the  word  wood,  the  face  and 
eyes  arc  slightly  raised  to  behold  the  darkening  sky. 

Fia.  33. 


•'  To  the  sanctuary,"  etc.    (p.  72.)  "  Treads  the  long  bridge,"  etc. 

Wild  hopes  thrill  her  breast  as  she  neareth  the  shore  : 

As  s«.(>n  lis  the  word  ski/  is  uttered,  the  glance  reverts  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  the  fugitive. 

<  )h,  despair  !  —  there  are  men  fast  advancing  before  ! 

Just  l>efore  the  word'oA,  the  eye  and  the  face  move  a  little 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  men  advancing  in  front  of  the  fugi- 
tive. By  an  abrupt  gesture  the  hand  may  point  these  men 
out.     The  attitude  may  indicate  despair.     (Fig.  34.) 


74 


THE  SIXTH  READER. 


Flo.  84. 


Fio.  35. 


**0fc.4«piUr!-  (p.  73.) 
Shame,  shame  on  their  manhood  !    They  hear,  they  heed 

The  face  is  still  riveted  to  the  spot  where  the  fugitive  and 
the  intercepting  party  are  meeting.  The  hand,  wliich  has 
remained  extended,  may  be  dropped  as  the  word  shame  is 
first  uttered. 

The  cry  her  flight  to  stay  ; 
And,  like  demon  forms,  with  their  outstretched  arms 

They  wait  to  seize  their  prey  !  (Fig.  86.) 

She  pauses,  she  turns,  —  ah  !  will  she  flee  back  ? 

The  look  is  all  the  while  fastened  on  the  fugitive  and  her 
piirsuei-s ;  or  it  may  rapidly  glance  around  the  vicinity,  as  if 
looking  for  sympathy  and  succor. 

Like  wolves  her  pursuers  howl  loud  on  her  track  :  — 
She  lifteth  to  heaven  one  look  of  despair, 
Her  anguish  breaks  forth  in  one  hurried  prayer  :  — 
Hark,  her  jailer's  5'ell  !  —  like  a  bloodhound's  bay 

At  the  word  karh,  the  eye  glances  at  the  jailer,  who  has 
now,  it  must  be  supposed,  approached  very  near  the  fugitive. 


I^\  J  ii.'/U(j  ',  /  i'y>.V. 


75 


On  the  low  night  wind  it  sweeps  ! 
Now  death,  or  the  chain  !  —  to  the  stream  she  turns, 
And  she  leaps,  0  God,  she  leaps  ! 

On  the  word  chain  a  gesture  of  emphasis,  a  downward 
stroke.     (See,  on  a  subsequent  page,  Emphatic  Gestures.) 

During  the  delivery  of  the  last  eight  or  ten  lines  there  may 
be  no  gesture  to  indicate  mere  locality;  but  throughout  the 
whole  of  them  the  attention  is  steadily  fixed  on  the  spot  where 
the  action  ia  progressing.  On  the  words  she  leaps  there  is 
first  a  sympathetic  movement  as  if  to  leap,  and  immediately  a 
recoiling  with  horror.  (Fig,  38.)  (See,  on  subsequent  pages, 
Imitative  Gestures.)  On  the  word  God  there  should  be  an  in- 
stantaneous upward  glance. 

The  dark  and  the  cold  yet  merciful  wave 

K  this  scene  is  supposed  to  be  somewhat  near  the  speaker, 
he  will  naturally  look  down  a  little  to  the  river  below  the 
bridge;  but  if  it  is  conceived  to  be  at  some  distance,  say  a 
liiarter  of  a  mile  or  more,  there  will  be  no  perceptible  change 
111  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 


Fio.  86. 


Pio.  87. 


•*OuUtret<lietl  :iriii 


"  LifUsth  to  lieavcu,"  etc. 


76 


THE  SIXTH   REAJ^ER. 


Receives  to  it«  bosom  tliu  funu  of  the  slave. 

No  gesture  of  location  needed  here. 

She  liBeBy  —  earth's  scenes  on  her  dim^ision  gleam ; 

In  pronouncing'  the  words  eartKa  scenes^  a  hasty  glance 
around  the  landscape  in  the  vicinity  of  the  catastrophe  would 
be  appropriate. 


Fio.  38. 


PI0.89L 


'O  God !  she  leapi> ! "    (p.  75.) 


'She  rises,"  etc 


Bat  she  straggleth  not  with  the  strong  rushing  stream  ; 
And  low  are  the  death-cries  her  woman's  heart  gives, 

As  she  floats  adown  the  river ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  grows  her  drowning  voice, 

And  her  cries  have  ceased  forever. 

On  the  words  as  she  floats  adoton  the  river^  the  direction  of 
the  glance  should  change  very  slightly,  so  as  to  keep  pace  with 
the  floating  corpse. 

Now  back,  jailer,  back  to  thy  dungeons  again, 

At  the  word  now,  the  glance  returns  to  the  jailer,  who  is 
supposed  to  be  still  standing  on  the  bridge,  watching  his  vie- 


INTRODUCTION. 


77 


Pio.  40. 


PlO.  41. 


••  Strong  rushing  stream."    (p.  76. ) 


'  Back,  jailer;  back  ! "     (p.  70.) 


tim.  At  the  utterance  of  the  second  hack^  the  face  turns  to 
t  he  jail,  and  a  quick  gesture  of  the  hand  may  point  to  it ;  and 
the  eye,  having  momentarily  looked  at  the  prison,  instantly 
returns,  and  rests  on  the  jailer. 

To  swing  the  red  lash,  and  rivet  the  chain  : 
The  form  thou  wouldst  fetter  —  a  valueless  clod  ! 

On  Kitnnfj,  the  gesture  may  imitate  the  stroke  of  one  ply- 
ing the  lash.     (See  Imitative  Gestures^  p.  80,  etc.) 

At  the  word  form  or  fetter^  the  hand  begins  to  be  moved, 

'  >  make  a  gesture  pointing  out  the  floating  corpse  ;  and  at  the 

ttorance  of  the  word  dod  the  hand  or  finger  points,  with 

1  descending  stroke,  in  the  direction  of  the  dead  body  in  the 

river.    The  gesture  may  be  made  with  the  left  hand.    (Fig.  22.) 

The  soul  thou  wouldst  barter  —  returned  to  her  God  ! 

The  eyes,  in  the  utterance  of  the  word  «<m/,  are  fixed  on 
the  jailer,  but  without  delay  they  are  raised  to  heaven ;  and 
at  the  utterance  of  the  words  toouldst  barter  —  returned^  the 
right  hand  is  also  raised,  and  the  hand  or  finger  points,  as  the 


78 


rUI'-   SfXTIf    READER. 


eyes  look,  to  God.     The  left  hand  may  still  Ije  held  in  the 
direction  of  the  corpse  in  the  river.     (Fig.  42.) 

She  lifts  in  his  light  her  unmanacled  hands  ; 

Here,  as  in  a  number  of  other  places  in  this  piece,  there 
should  be  a  striking  imitative  gesture.  (See  Imitative  Ges- 
tures, p.  79,  etc.)  The  hands  should  be  lifted  prone  (i.  e. 
pahns  down)  in  front  of  the  body,  till  they  are  at  the  full  length 
of  the  arms  and  at  an  angle  of  about  45*  with  the  horizon,  and 
then  the  hands  should  be  lifted  vertically  to  the  front,  turning 
on  the  vrists  as  pivots.  The  mention  of  the  light  of  God, 
which  is  the  glory  of  his  throne,  or  the  glory  of  heaven,  nat- 
urally requires  a  glance  upward. 

She  flees  throu^  the  darkness  no  more ; 
To  freericHu  she  leaped  through  drowning  and  death. 

If  freedom  be  supposed  to  be  in  heaven,  the  look,  which 
had  been  lowered,  may  again  give  an  upward  glance.  On  the 
words  she  leaped,  the  body  may  make  a  slightly  imitative  move- 
ment as  of  one  beginning  to  leap. 

And  her  sorrow  and  bondage  are  o'er. 


Pro.  4Jt 


Fio.  4S. 


INTRODUCTION.  79 


II.  IMITATIVE  GESTURES. 

The  second  kind  of  gestures  are  those  which  are  imitative. 
They  answer  the  question,  How'?  It  will  surprise  one  who 
has  never  given  the  subject  consideration,  to  leam  how  numer- 
ous is  this  class.  An  orator  who  has  much  imagination  con- 
ceives himself  in  the  midst  of  the  things  he  describes,  and  as 
actually  performing  the  deeds  of  which  he  speaks.  His 
action  unconsciously  imitates  that  which  he  imagines,  as  Gold- 
smith's crippled  soldier  "  shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed 
how  fields  were  won." 

lliis  principle  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  pantomime.  Ros- 
cius,  it  is  said,  contended  with  Cicero  to  see  which  could 
express  ideas  the  more  forcibly ;  he,  by  gestures  ;  Cicero,  by 
words.     Imitation  must  have  been  a  principal  means  with  the 

fonner. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade. 

The  imaginative  speaker,  if  he  be  very  much  in  earnest,  in 
uttering  this  second  line  will  bo  likely  to  go  through  the 
motion  of  drawing  his  sword  firam  the  scabbard.     (Fig.  44.) 

Here  1  fling 
Hatred  and  full  defiance  in  your  face  ! 

The  action  of  huriing,  or  the  feeling  of  defiance,  requires  a 
significant  gesture. 

Measureless  har  !  thou  hast  made  my  heart 

Too  great  for  what  contains  it.  —  Boy  !    0  slave  ! 

Boy  !    False  hound  ! 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  't  is  there. 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dovecote,  I 
Fluttered  your  Volscians  in  Corioli : 
Alone  I  did  it.  —  Boy  ! 

Shakespeare  here  represents  lofty  disdain  wrestling  with 
intense  anger  in  the  breast  of  Coriolanus.      Before  the  Vol- 


80  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

scian  Senate,  Aufidius,  a  leader  of  the  Yolsci,  has  sneeringlj 
called  him  a  '*  boy  of  tears,**  because  Coriolanus  has  wept  at  his 
mother's  entreaties  and  has  spazed  Rome.  On  the  words  / 
fluttered  your  VoUcians  in  Coriolif  one  or  both  hands,  with  arm 
extended,  should  violently  shake  and  shiver,  to  imitate  fright- 
ened doves.     A  defiant  face  and  attitude  are  very  important 

iiere. 

Take  her  up  tendfcriy ; 
Lift  her  with  care. 

The  action  of  a  penon  gently  assisting  to  lift  with  both 
hands  is  here  natural  and  almost  unavoidable. 

Swift  as  an  ieagle  cats  the  air. 

The  motion  of  the  eagle  cutting  the  air  may  be  expressed 
by  a  quick  high  gesture  of  the  hand  moved  edgewise. 

Approach  thy  grave 
like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  cofach 
Aboat  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

The  orator  may  go  through  the  movement  of  wrapping  the 
drapery  about  him. 

Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostrils  wide. 

WTioever  enters  into  the  spirit  of  this  passage,  in  which 
Henry  V.  stimulates  his  soldiers  to  make  a  desperate  charge  on 
the  enemy,  will  find  his  teeth  firmly  set  through  sympathetic 

imitation. 

Quick  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  stafT, 
Dame  Barbara  snatcheil  the  silken  scarf : 
She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill. 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

The  elocutionist,  representing  old  Barbara  flaunting  the 
Union  flag  over  the  heads  of  the  Rebel  host,  will  find  him- 
self tending  to  take  the  same  attitude,  and,  in  imagination, 
vigorously  shaking  the  flag  in  his  extended  hand. 


INTRODUCTION. 


81 


In  passing  from  this  general  principle  to  some  other  appli- 
cations, we  may  remark  :  — 

First.  In  speaking  of  anjrthing  utterly  worthless,  there 
is  a  natural  tendency  to  throw  it  down  and  aside. 

Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash. 

On  the  word  trash  there  may  be  the  gesture  of  scornfully 
throwing  away  the  "  filthy  lucre." 

Fir..  44.  PlO.  45. 


Each  horseman  drew,"  et<'.     (p.  79.) 


••  Steals  traah." 


All  that  tread 
Tlie  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. 

On  the  word  handful  the  hand  rejects  them,  throws  them 
away  and  aside  as  being  comparatively  insignificant. 
All  nations  before  him  are  as  nothing, 

On  the  gesture  of  place,  indicating  all  n<i(ioitj<,  there  may 
1m>  a  wide  sweep  of  one  or  both  arms  to  express  universality. 
(P.  83,  fig.  46.)  On  the  wonl  nothing,  the  imitative  gesture 
descends,  the  action  being  that  of  one  throwiiiLr  :iw:iv  or  drop- 
] ting  as  utterly  worthless. 


82  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

•nd  th«y  are  counted  to  him  lees  than  nothing,  and  vanity. 

On  the  word  lest  there  is  the  same  imitative  gesture  of  con- 
temptuous throwing  away. 

Behold  the  nations  are  as  a  drop  of  a  hacket,  and  arc  counted  as  the 
small  dust  of  the  balance  ! 

On  the  words  drop  and  dust  incre  is  a  similar  movement 
of  the  arm  and  hand,  as  of  one  discarding  what  is  of  no  value. 
This  gesture  should  not  be  made  at  the  front ;  for  when  we 
throw  away  or  reject  as  valneless,  we  do  not  cast  the  thing 
where  it  will  be  an  obstacle,  or  even  visible,  in  our  path. 
Neither  do  we  throw  it  far  to  the  rear ;  for  that  would  require 
too  much  bodily  exertion,  and  such  action  would  seem  to  give 
it  temporary  importance :  but  we  toss  it  down  at  the  right  or 
at  the  left;  commonly  the  right,  because  the  right  hand  is 
mainly  employed. 

It  is  utterly  useless  to  prolong  the  strife. 

Here,  on  the  word  uteUss,  the  action  is  again  that  of  a  person 
flinging  away  a  trifle ;  or,  if  one  prefer,  he  may  drop  the  hand 
as  if  it  were  paralyzed,  and  for  the  moment  assume  the  attitude 
of  helplessness.     (Fig.  1.) 

The  finest  declamations  of  Burke  sink  into  insignificance. 
The  same  gesture  of  throwing  away  on  the  word  insignificance. 

I  will  not  call  him  fool,  because  he  happens  to  he  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer. 

The  same  gesture  on  the  word  fool,  with  a  little  quicker 
stroke  to  indicate  anger.     (See  Emphatic  Gestures.) 

Secondly.  The  action  in  concession  is  that  of  a  person  con- 
veying in  his  hand  something  which  he  surrenders.  The  hand 
should  then  be  extended  forward  and  open,  the  palm  up 
and  turned  a  little  to  the  front, — just  as  much  so  as  if  it 
contained  something  actuaUy  to  be  placed  in  the  hand  or  at 
the  feet  of  the  person  to  whom  the  concession  is  made. 


INTRODUCTION. 


83 


PlO.  4& 


Fig.  47. 


"All  nations."  etc.  (p.  81) 


I  freely  graut  all. " 


I  freely  grant  all  that  you  demand. 

The  hand  moves  forward  on  a  line  nearly  horizontal,  palm 
upwards,  the  hand,  at  the  word  grants  slightly  turning  on  the 
wrist  as  on  a  pivot ;  and  when  it  has  been  extended  as  far  as 
convenient,  it  remains  for  a  time  in  that  position  of  offering,  as  if 
it  were  to  give  the  recipient  time  to  take  that  which  is  yielded. 

I  grant  him,  bloody,  luxurious,  avaricious,  false. 

On  the  word  grant  the  same  gesture. 

Bmtus  is  an  honorable  man. 

This  is  concession,  and  may  be  expressed  in  the  same  manner. 

Politeness  may  require  the  speaker  to  bow  ceremoniously  at 
the  same  time  that  he  moves  forward  the  hand  ;  the  principle 
being  that  the  speaker  shoiUd  imitate  the  action  and  attitude 
of  one  yielding  or  conceding  a  visible  and  tangible  object, 
which  usually  may,  for  the  moment,  be  conceived  of  as  being 
in  the  hand. 

Extreme  humility,  submission,  and  obsequiousness  are  ex- 


84  THK  SIXTH  HEADER 

pressed  by  the  iKjsture  and  motions  of  a  deferential  servant 
before  his  master,  or  a  polished  courtier  before  his  king. 

Mo8t  high«  most  mighty,  and  most  puiwant  Cesar, 
Metellus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  bumble  heart 

No  better  general  direction  can  be  given  i  i  iho  delivery 
of  these  and  similar  lines  than  that,  during  the  utterance  of 
them,  one  should  imagine  himself  actually  in  the  position  of 
the  original  speaker,  and  imitate  his  manner  as  far  as  dignity 
will  permit.     (Fig.  48.) 


Is  there  any  limit  to  the  extent  to  which  imitative  gestures 
should  be  used  1     Yes. 

First,  there  may  be  an  innuiuon  which  is  false,  because  too 
literal  Thus,  in  one  of  Percival's  hymns,  we  have  the  follow- 
ing lines  in  honor  of  thoee  who  fought  at  Bunker's  Hill :  — 

Hail  to  the  mom  when  first  they  stood 

On  Banker's  height ! 
And  fearless  stemmed  the  invading  flood, 
And  wrote  oar  dearest  rights  in  blood. 
And  mowed  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood 

In  desperate  fight ! 

Here  a  too  close  imitation  would  go  through  the  exact 
motions  of  writing  in  the  fourth  line ;  or,  worse  still,  would, 
as  it  were,  accurately  swing  a  scythe  in  the  fifth ! 

Secondly,  there  may  be  excessive  or  undignified  imitation ; 
as  if  one  describing  a  gymnast's  feats  should  turn  a  summer- 
sault, or  stand  on  his  head  in  presence  of  the  audience;  or 
should  take  some  steps  of  a  Highland  fling,  to  illustrate  a 
description  of  such  a  dance. 

Decorum,  therefore,  and  dignity  are  not  to  be  sacrificed. 
"  Suit  the  action  to  the  word,"  says  Shakespeare,  "  with  this 
si)ecial  obser^'ance,  that  you  overstep  not  th(^  moflpsity  of 
nature." 


lSTi;ni)UCTION.  85 

Fio.  4&  Fio.  49. 


Metelhis  Cimber  throws,"  etc. 


"  Winds  up  the  ascent,"  etc. 


We  give  the  following  analysis  in  further  illustration  of  the 
principles  alrejidy  laid  down.  The  selection  is  from  the  speech 
of  Daniel  Webster  as  prosecuting  officer  in  the  famous  trial 
of  the  murderers  of  Joseph  White.  Here,  too,  some  latitude 
must  be  allowed  in  regard  to  the  number,  the  manner,  and  the 
extent  of  the  gestures. 

The  deed  was  executed  with  a  degree  of  self-possession  and  steadiness 
equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was  planned.  Tlie  circumstances, 
now  clearly  in  evidence,  spread  out  the  whole  scene  before  us. 

On  the  words,  spread  out  the  whole  scene,  there  may  well  be  an 
imitative  gesture  made  by  bringing  the  hands  together  in  front, 
ibout  the  height  of  the  elbow,  or  a  little  higher,  turning  the 
[•alms  upward,  and  then,  with  the  hands  in  this  position, 
making  an  outward  sweep,  the  open  hands  describing  about 
I  quarter  of  a  circle,  the  radius  being  the  length,  or  a  little 
more,  from  the  elbow  to  the  tips  of  the  fingers.  All  appear- 
ance of  stiffness  must  be  avoided. 

Deep  »lce])  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim  and  on  all  beneath  his  roof. 
A  healthful  old  man,  to  whom  sleep  was  sweet,  —  the  first  sound  slumbent 


86  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

of  the  night  held  him  in  their  soft  bat  Rtrong  embrace.     The 
enters,  through  the  window  already  prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apart- 
ment 

On  the  words  through  the  window,  the  hand  is  raised,  and 
the  finger  points  to  the  window  which  the  orator  sees  in  his 
imagination.  At  the  words  unoccupied  apartment^  the  index 
finger  ceases  to  point  at  the  window  ;  and  the  opening  hand, 
bj  a  slight  motion,  directs  attention  to  the  unoccupied  apart- 
ment.    These,  of  course,  are  gestures  of  place. 

With  noiseless  foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half  lighted  by  the  moon. 

The  slow  motion  of  the  murderer  pacing  the  hall  is  indi- 
cated and  slightly  imitated  by  a  slow  movement  of  the  hand ; 
and  at  the  words  hatf  lighted^  the  eye  glances  up  towards  the 
moon.     These  are  mainly  gestures  of  place. 

He  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs 

On  the  word  windi,  the  hand  may  be  elevated  a  little  higher 
than  the  forehead,  and  the  index  finger,  pointing,  may  exe- 
cute a  spiral,  a  circle,  or  a  curve,  to  show  the  spiral  motion. 
The  elevation  of  the  hand  indicates  place,  and  the  winding 
motion  is,  of  course,  imitative. 

and  reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber. 

The  index  finger  points  to  the  door  as  the  voice  pronounces 
the  word. 

Of  this  he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued  pressure, 

The  hand  moves,  the  hand  and  forearm  rotating  so  that  the 
hand  comes  nearly  palm  upward,  imitating  the  motion  of 
unlocking  by  turning  a  key ;  the  ends  of  the  thumb  and 
first  two  fingers  in  contact,  as  if  pressing  on  a  key. 

till  it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise  ;  and  he  enters,  and  beholds 
his  victim  before  him. 

Tlie  hand  may  move  slowly  as  tlie  words  are  uttered,  to 


INTRODUCTION. 


87 


Pio.  50. 


Fir..  51. 


Moves  the  lock,"  etc 


'Till  it  turns,  "etc. 


imitate  the  swinging  of  the  door.  On  the  words  beholds  his 
victim,  the  hand  is  lowered,  as  if  to  point  to  the  victim  sleeping 
before  him. 

The  room  was  uncommonly  open  to  the  admission  of  light 

On  the  words  uncommonly  open,  the  eye  turns  as  if  the 
speaker  were  inside  the  room  and  glancing  up  at  the  windows. 
The  hand,  somewhat  elevated,  may,  at  the  same  time,  be  waved 
in  the  arc  of  a  circle,  as  if  to  call  attention  to  a  large  part  of 
the  inside  of  the  room. 

The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  tamed  away  from  the  murderer, 

On  the  word  factf  the  hand  is  again  extended  towards  the 
face  of  the  victim  supposed  to  be  present  within  touching 
distance.  On  the  words  Unnied  army,  the  position  of  the  hand 
may  be  reversed.  It  had,  perhaps,  been  supine ;  it  may  now  be 
turned  palm  outwards,  and  nearly  vertical,  with  a  slight  motion, 
as  if  turning  the  face  away  from  the  murderer. 


and  the  beams  of  the  moon,  resting  on  the  gray  locks  of  Iiis  aged  temple, 


88 


THE  SIXTH  HEADER, 


On  the  words  beams  of  the  nuxm,  the  eye  glances  up  towards 
the  window  through  which  the  moonlight  streams.  On  the 
words  resting  on  the  gray  locks,  the  eye  is  fixed  on  the  temples 
of  the  victim. 

showed  him  where  to  strike. 

These  words,  pronounced  with  great  slowness,  and  accom- 
panied by  a  stroke,  strictly  in  imitation  of  the  murderer's  blow, 

PicBS. 


The  fktal  blow."  etc 


"  FUm  the  dagger,"  etc. 


may  be  made  exceedingly  impressive  and  thrilling.  Rufus 
Choate  would  have  reproduced  the  scene  by  a  two-handed 
blow! 

The  fatal  blow  is  given  !  and  the  \ictim  passes,  without  a  straggle  or  a 
motion,  from  the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death  ! 

Repose  of  sleep.  These  words  call  attention  to  the  place 
of  the  sleeping  victim.  On  the  utterance  of  the  words  to  t/te 
repose  of  death  the  hand,  which  had  been  resting  almost  on 
the  sleeping  form,  may  be  carried  a  little  distance  to  the  right, 
as  if  death  were  somewhat  removed  from  sleep.  The  gesture 
is  one  of  place. 


INTRODUCTION.  89 

Pin.  M.  FlO.  66. 


"  Raises  the  aged  arm,"  etc.  "  lAjilnres  the  wrist."  etc. 

It  is  the  assassin's  purpose  to  make  sure  work  ;  and  he  yet  plies  the 
dagger,  though  it  is  obvious  that  life  has  been  destroyed  by  the  blow 
of  the  bludgeon. 

On  the  words  plies  the  hand  may  clinch,  as  it  were,  the 
dagger ;  and  on  the  word  dagger  it  may  fall,  as  if  striking. 

He  even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may  not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the  heart, 

On  the  words  raises  the  aged  arm,  the  motion  of  lifting  the 
arm  may  he  performed  with  the  hand. 

and  replaces  it  again  over  the  wouiids  of  the  poniard  ! 

On  the  words  replaces  it  again  over  the  toounds  of  the 
poniard,  he  goes  through  the  movement  of  replacing  it  with 
the  hand. 

It  i<  needless  to  say  that  these  are  imitative  gestures. 

To  finish  the  picture,  he  explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse  ! 

The  gesture  here  imitates  the  position  of  a  physician's  thumh 
and  finger  feeling  for  the  patient's  pulse. 


90 


THE  SIXTH  READER. 


He  feels  for  it,  and  ascertaiiu  that  it  beats  no  longer !  It  is  accom- 
plished !  The  deed  is  done !  He  retreats,  retraces  his  steps  to  the 
window,  passes,  oat  through  it  as  he  came  in,  and  escapes.  He  has 
done  the  murder,  —  no  eye  has  seen  him,  no  ear  has  heard  him.  The 
secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe  ! 

Here  the  hand,  the  arm,  and  the  eye  follow  the  movement 
of  the  murderer  from  place  to  place. 

Ah,  gentlonen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake  !  Such  a  secret  can  be 
safe  nowhere. 

On  the  words  can  be  tafe^  a  long  sweep  of  the  arm,  with 
open  hand,  beginning  near  the  left  shoulder.  Just  as  the 
sweep  is  terminating,  the  word  nowhere  is  uttered.  A  slight, 
quick  shake  of  the  head,  to  indicate  negation,  may  accompany 
the  utterance  of  the  word  wmkere.  (See  Conventional  Geitures, 
page  100.) 

The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither  nook  nor  comer  where  the  guilty 
can  bestow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe. 

On  the  words  the  whole  creation,  a  very  extensive  sweep  of 


Fio.  fi«. 


Fig  57. 


'  Can  be  safe  no-where.' 


The  whole  creation,"  etc. 


INTRODUCTION. 


91 


Fio.  68. 


Flo.  89. 


Eye  which  glances,"  etc. 


Splendor  of  noon."  etc. 


both  hands  outward  from  a  point  just  above  the  forehead,  the 
face  looking  up  to  God ;  the  sweeping  gesture  terminating  in 
a  slight  stroke  on  the  word  God,  both  hands  being  then  ex- 
tended to  the  full  length  of  the  arms.  This  attitude  should  be 
maintained  until  the  utterance  of  the  word  bestow,  and  just 
after  that  time  the  hands  and  the  face  drop. 

Not  to  speak  of  that  Eye  which  glances  through  all  disguises, 

At  the  beginning  of  this  sentence,  the  look  of  the  speaker 
may  be  fastened  on  his  audience,  but  in  the  ending,  it  is  slowly 
raised. 

and  beholds  everything  as  in  the  splendor  of  noon,  such  secrets  of  guilt 
are  never  safe  from  detection,  even  by  men. 

On  the  words  splendor  of  noon,  the  face  is  high  upturned,  and 
the  open  hand,  which  had  been  lifted  in  front  of  the  forehead, 
may  be  carried  to  the  right  to  the  extent  of  about  the  sixth  of 
a  circle.  The  gestures  are  chiefly  expressive  of  place,  as  they 
draw  attention  to  the  flood  of  light  that  descends  from  the  sky. 


92  THE  sfxrrr  re  a  per. 


m.  EMPHATIC  GESTURES. 

Wbeneyer  the  mind  is  agitated,  there  is  a  natural  and  often 
irresistible  tendency  to  express  emotion  by  some  bodily  move- 
ment Any  display  of  bodily  force  by  a  speaker  indicates  a 
corresponding  degree  of  mental  excitement.*  The  stronger  the 
inner  feeling,  the  greater  the  outward  manifestation.  This  is 
the  foundation  of  all  emphatic  gesture. 

There  was  a  basis  of  truth  in  the  view  taken  by  a  good 
mother  in  Israel,  in  one  of  our  rural  districts,  when  she  ex- 
claime<l  of  her  favorite  minister,  **Ah!  he  was  a  powerful 
preacher.  During  the  time  that  he  dispensed  the  gospel  to  us, 
he  kicked  three  pulpits  to  pieces,  and  banged  the  insides  out 
of  five  Bibles.** 

The  amount  of  physical  force  expended  by  John  B.  Gough 
in  one  of  his  temperance  lectures  is  evinced  by  his  drenching 
perspiration. 

How  does  bodily  force  accompany  intense  mental  action? 
Evidently  there  are  many  modes  in  which  this  might  occur. 
The  old  lady's  minister  did  not  confine  his  gestures  to  his 
hands  and  arms.  Some  orators  have  a  habit  of  giving  the 
impression  of  great  power  by  rising  on  the  toes,  and  settling 
back  solidly  on  the  heels.  Whitefield  at  times  stamped  with 
terrible  energy.  Some  speakers  violently  shake  their  lieads. 
Some  nod  impressively,  and  it  is  wonderful  how  many  de- 
grees of  emphasis  may  be  signified  in  this  way.  The  nod 
may  be  almost  imperceptible,  the  head  not  moving  an  inch ; 
or  it  may  be  extremely  violent,  the  whole  of  the  upper  part 
of  the  body  sharing  in  it.  The  degree  of  force  can  thus  be 
graduated  exactly  to  meet  the  demand.     Many  orators  express 

*  This  is  why,  as  an  orator,  a  small  man  like  Kossuth  is  placed  at  a  disad- 
vantage in  comparison  with  a  large  man  like  Edwin  Forrest,  The  powerful 
physique  of  Webster  gave  him  a  great  advantage  over  an  opponent  like  Rufus 
Choate,  although  the  latter  was  not  lacking  in  force.  It  would  take  a  dozen 
common  ministers  rolled  into  one,  to  make  up  as  much  bodily  energy  as 
Beecher  iK)ssesses. 


rxriioDUCTiuN.  93 

more  by  this  thuu  by  any  other  kind  of  gesture.  But  perhaps 
the  most  natural  and  the  most  graceful  mode  of  expressing 
earnestness  is  by  a  blow  of  the  hand  or  arm.  The  student  will 
be  fortunate,  if  he  shall  acquire  the  habit  of  spontaneously  com- 
bininy  the  nod  or  the  bow  with  the  emphatic  blow. 

We  lay  aside,  for  the  moment,  in  this  discussion,  all  consid- 
eration of  special  motive,  which  may  often  require  a  blow  to 
be  struck,  and  we  confine  ourselves  to  the  simple  exhibition 
of  emphasis. 

The  stroke  of  the  arm  and  hand  may  indicate  all  degrees  of 
force,  depending  on  the  extent,  the  rapidity,  and  the  apparent 
effort. 

The  gesture  with  both  hands  increases,  of  course,  the  signifi- 
cance of  that  with  one.  A  blow  with  the  clinched  hand  is  far 
more  significant  than  one  with  the  open  hand. 

Knowledge  is  better  than  learning  ;  wisdom  is  better  than  knowledge  ; 
virtue  is  better  than  wisdom. 

On  knowledge  there  may  be  a  slight  stroke,  indicative  of 
earnestness ;  on  ivisdom  there  shoidd  be  a  little  longer  and 
stronger  blow  of  the  hand ;  and  on  virtue  the  gesture  should 
be  still  more  extensive  and  forcible. 

The  private  citizen  can  check  his  child  ;  the  alderman  can  repulse  the 
private  citizen  ;  the  mayor  can  put  down  the  alderman  ;  the  governor 
can  overthrow  the  mayor  ;  the  president  can  crush  the  governor ;  the 
nation  can  hurl  into  annihilation  the  president. 

Here  a  slight  stroke  of  the  open  hand  may  indicate  the  first 
degree  of  emphasis,  that  on  the  word  child;  a  little  longer  and 
more  forcible  stroke  may  illmstrate  the  second  degree  of  empha- 
sis, that  on  the  word  citizen  ;  a  still  longer  and  stronger  stroke 
on  alderman  may  exemplify  the  third  degree  of  emphasis,  etc. 
The  last  stroke,  that  on  president,  may  be  made  with  the 
clinched  fist*     (See  fig.  60.) 

*  Instead  of  emphatic  gestures,  thsse  consecutive  sentences  may  be  illus- 
trated by  gestures  of  JP&IC0;  the  open  hand  or  the  index  finger  sucoesaivtly 


94 


TILL  SIXTH  READER. 


But  these  gestures  of  emphasis  are  rarely  used  pure  and  sim- 
ple. They  are  «ji'iunilly  combineil  wUli  (gesture;*  of  imitation, 
or  witli  th.  r  v;  the  p<  he  gesture  somewhat 

depending,  in  aliuctet  every  instance,  uu  the  display  of  bodily 
jwwer;  and  tlie  «li.si»I;iv  of  bodily  power  keeping  pace,  for  the 
most  part,  usity  of  mental  action. 

I  tell  you,  tliottgb  yoQ,  thongfa  all  the  world,  though  an  angel  from 
heaTeii,  should  deckre  the  truth  of  it,  1  would  not  beli  •     ':' 

Fio.  00 


Dein«e«  of  ^MKt, 


'  Tliuuder  treaacm,''  etc.  (p.  Jtt.) 


locating  ehUd^  citizen,  atderman,  mayor,  governor,  prendent.  They  may  be 
located  side  by  side,  b^^inning  with  child  in  front  at  about  the  height  of  the 
elbow,  and  passing,  one  by  one,  to  the  right,  placing  president  about  the 
fourth  part  of  a  circle  from  child.  Or  they  may  be  located  in  front,  one 
above  the  other,  child  being  placed  a  little  lower  tlian  the  elbow,  and  the 
president  placed,  by  the  hand  and  ami  extended  up  at  an  angle  of  about  45° 
with  the  plane  of  the  horizon  cssively  higher  position  may  be  com- 

bined with  lateral  positions  su.,  .  .  ..;.  more  to  the  right  ;  so  that  the  hand 
should  rise  diagonally  from  the  low  front  to  the  high  side  position  at  the  full 
length  of  the  arm  held  at  an  angle  of  about  45°  with  the  plane  of  the  horizon. 
Again,  gestxires  of  imitation  may  be  used  in  these  consecutive  sentences  ; 
gestures  of  checking,  repulsing,  putting  dotcn,  overthrovnng,  crushing,  and 
hurling.  These  imitative  gestures  may  be  made  with  successively  higher 
d^rees  of  force,  as  we  proceed  to  show. 


IM'UUDUCTION.  95 

Preparation  having  been  made  for  an  emphatic  gesture  at  the 
very  begiiyiing  of  this  sentence,  by  raising  the  hand  as  high  as 
the  head  on  the  words  /  tell  you,  there  should  be  a  somewhat 
emphatic  stroke  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  individuals 
addressed,  the  hand  at  the  close  of  the  blow,  (which  may  be 
struck  on  the  second  you,)  resting  at  or  a  Httle  below  the  lieight 
of  the  elbow.  From  the  second  though  to  the  word  world,  the 
hand  is  engaged  in  making  an  outward  sweep,  a  little  above  the 
horizontal  Une  ;  and  on  the  word  world,  which  is  quite  emphatic, 
this  outward  sweep  terminates,  it  having  become  almost  a 
blow.  On  the  words  though  an  angel,  the  hand  is  raised  above 
the  head,  and  the  eyes  are  cast  toward  the  zenith ;  and  on 
the  word  heaven,  a  stroke  may  be  made  upward  toward  the 
sky.  This  last  stroke  should  be  made  with  a  vigor  propor- 
tioned to  the  earnestness  of  the  speaker. 

We  give,  in  further  illustration,  the  following  extract  from 
a  Fourth  of  July  oration  on  Uducation,  by  Horace  Mann. 

Remember,  then,  the  child,  whose  voice  first  lisps  to-day,  before  that 
voice  shall  whisper  sedition  in  secret,  or  thunder  treason  at  the  head 
of  an  armed  band. 

If  this  were  the  first  sentence  of  a  speech,  no  gesture  would 
be  required  ;  but  as  it  is  a  peroration,  and  the  speaker  and  the 
audience  may  be  supposed  to  be  wrought  up  to  a  high  degree 
of  excitement,  a  slight  stroke,  by  way  of  emphasizing  the  word 
child,  and  a  larger  and  stronger  blow  on  the  word  treason, 
woidd  seem  appropriate. 

Remember  the  infant  whose  hand  to-day  first  lifts  the  tiny  bauble, 
before  that  hand  shall  scatter  firebrands,  arrows,  and  death. 

'  On  the  words  first  lifts  the  tiny  bauble,  an  imitative  gesture, 
as  of  one  raising  a  child's  plaything  to  about  the  height  of  the 
forehead,  the  gesture  ako  serving  as  a  preparation.  The  hand 
remaining  uplifted,  the  gesture  on  the  word  firebrands  assumes 
a  different  character :  a  very  forcible  stroke,  as  of  one  scat- 
tering or  hurling,  may  be  made  witli  a  long  sweep  obhquely 
downward  from  front  to  rear.     (Fig.  62.) 


96 


THE  SIXTH   UKADER. 


Remember  those  sportire  groups  ul  yuuth,  in  whose  halcyon  bosoms 
there  sleeps  an  ocean,  as  yet  bcarce  ruffled  by  the  passiuns  that  soon  shall 
awake  and  heave  it  aa  with  a  tempest's  strength. 

On  sportive  grtmps  of  youths  a  wave  of  the  hand,  as  if  to 
indicate  the  location  of  the  youth.  On  the  word  awakty  a 
geetuie  somewhat  imitative,  made  with  both  hands,  lifted 
suddenly  to  the  height  of  the  shoulders,  or  thereabouts,  the 
hands  being  raised  from  the  prone  to  the  vertical  position. 
On  the  word  iempet^B^  the  hands,  wliich  have  been  poised 
with  palms  uplifted  to  the  front,  are  brought  down  with  a 
forcible  stroke  of  the  arms  to  a  position  a  httle  lower  than 
the  height  of  the  elbow.  The  hands  may  close  in  descending, 
so  that  at  the  end,  the  back  of  the  hands  being  down,  they 
will  be  clinched,  indicating  great  ])ower. 

Bemember  that  whatever  station  in  Ufe  you  may  occupy,  these  mortals, 
these  immortals,  are  yoor  care.  Devote,  expend,  consecrate  yourselves 
to  the  holy  work  of  their  improvement 

On  the  word  immoriaU  —  that  is,  on  the  accented  im-  — 
there  should  be  an  emphatic  nod  or  other  gesture.     On  the 


FlaO. 


Flo.  6S. 


Scatter  fixebninds,"  etc.    (p.  95.) 


With  a  tempest's  strength. 


Ji\ liifjj/iji  iiuiV.  97 

words  devote^  expmd,  and  consecrate,  blows  may  be  successively 
struck  with  increasing  length  and  force. 

Pour  out  light  and  truth,  as  God  pours  sunshine  and  rain. 

On  the  words  pour  out  light  and  truths  an  imitative  gesture 
may  be  used,  beginning  with  the  hands  near  the  breast,  the 
hands  being  carried  open,  the  palms  to  the  front,  in  curved 
lines  forward  and  outward ;  the  gesture  resting  when  the  hands 
have  reached  the  distance  of  the  extended  arm.  The  ideas 
being  of  an  exalted  nature,  the  look  should  be  somewhat  ele- 
vated; and  on  the  word  God,  the  eye  should  glance  upward, 
the  hands  being  all  the  while  held  in  the  extended  position 
till  the  last  word  of  the  sentence  is  uttered. 

No  longer  seek  knowledge  as  the  luxury  of  a  few,  but  dispense  it  freely 
among  all  as  the  bread  of  life. 

On  the  word  feio,  a  slight  gesture  of  the  hand,  beginning, 
perhaps,  near  the  height  of  the  elbow,  and  passing  downwards 
and  slightly  outwards,  the  gesture  being  imitative  and  indi- 
cating a  matter  of  trifling  importance,  the  gesture  ending  with 
the  hand  at  the  side  and  a  little  to  the  rear.  On  the  word 
dispense  both  hands  should  be  raised  in  preparation  for  a  wide 
sweeping  gesture  to  begin  on  the  word  freely^  and  end  with  an 
outward  stroke  on  all,  the  hands  then  being  extended  to  the 
fidl  length  of  the  arms  on  the  right  and  the  left,  and  at  the 
height  of  the  shoulders ;  the  gesture  indicating  universality. 
On  the  words  bread  of  life,  another  upward  glance,  intimating 
that  the  bread  of  life  "  cometh  down  from  heaven." 

Learn  only  how  the  ignorant  may  leani ;  how  the  innocent  may  be 
preserved ;  the  vicious,  reclaimed. 

On  ignorant,  preserved,  and  reclaimed  there  may  be  succes- 
sive nods  indicating  emphasis ;  the  voice  falling  on  each,  and 
the  eye  glancing  in  diflferent  directions  on  the  words  ignorant, 
innocent,  and  vicious,  as  if  these  persons  occupied  different 
places. 


98  THE  SIXTTf   liKADEH. 

Call  down  the  astronomer  from  tiit>  .sRies  ; 

A  gesture  of  location,  beginning  with  the  elevation  of  the 
hand  and  of  the  eye  at  the  beginning  of  the  sentence,  and  ter- 
minating with  the  hand  lifted  high  towards  the  zenith  on  the 
word  ikiet. 

call  up  the  geologust  trum  ius  subterranean  explorations ; 

The  hand  begins  to  be  lowered  on  the  word  geologist,  and 
the  descending  gesture  terminates  with  a  slight  stroke  on  ex- 
plorationtf  as  if  locating  them  below  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

suimiion,  if  need  be,  the  mightiest  intellects  from  the  council -chamber 
of  the  nation  ;  enter  cloistered  halU,  where  the  scholiast  muses  over  su- 
))erfluous  annotations  ;  dissolve  conclave  and  synod,  where  subtle  |)olemic8 
are  vainly  discmaing  their  barren  dogmas ; 

On  the  wonU  iiUdUcU  from  the  eauncil-ekamberf  the  eye 
may  be  turned  and  the  hand  extended  toward  the  supposed 
locality.  On  enter  cloistered  halUy  another  gesture  of  location, 
—  a  sweep  of  the  baud  towards  the  imagined  place.  So  on 
conclave  and  fynod.  A  look  of  pitying  contempt  on  the 
words  scholiast  and  superfluous;  a  gesture  of  contempt  on  the 
words  barren  dogmas,  preparation  having  been  made  for  the 
scornful  gesture  by  lifting  the  hand  at  the  word  vainly  nearly 
to  the  height  of  the  breast,  the  gesture  being  imitative  of 
one  rejecting  what  is  utterly  worthless,  the  backward  or  side- 
wise  stroke  being  on  the  word  dogmas. 

and  go  forth  and  teach  this  people. 

On  the  words  go  forth,  a  gesture  partly  imitative  and  partly 
by  way  of  location,  the  hand  being  carried  from  the  breast 
forward  and  upward  to  the  full  extent  of  the  arm ;  and  then, 
without  dropping  the  hand,  a  gesture  of  emphasis  on  the  word 
teach,  the  gesture  being  made  by  a  forcible  stroke  down  in  firout. 

For  in  the  name  of  the  living  God  it  must  be  proclaimed  that  licen- 
tiousness shall  be  tlie  liberty,  and  violence  and  chicanery  shall  be  the 


lyTRovuunus. 


99 


Pio.  65. 


In  the  name  of 


(p.  98.) 


'  The  only  happiness,"  etc. 


law,  and  superstition  and  priestcraft  shall  be  the  religion,  and  the  self- 
destructive  indulgence  of  all  sensual  and  unhallowed  passions  shall  be 
the  only  happiness,  of  that  people  which  neglects  the  education  of  its 
children ! 

On  the  word  God,  a  gesture  of  some  emphasLs,  and  yet 
partly  of  location,  made  by  lifting  the  hand  to  the  height  of 
the  head,  and  striking  upward  on  the  word  God,  so  that  the 
ann  will  be  extended  straight  towards  heaven.  The  hand  is 
then  slowly  withdrawn  as  far  as  the  head,  and  an  emphatic 
gesture  is  made  by  a  downward  stroke  on  the  word  liberty, 
and,  again,  on  law.  On  religion,  another  still  more  forcible 
blow  is  struck  for  emphasis.  On  the  word  liappiness,  it  might 
not  bo  inappropriate  to  increase  the  emphasis  by  a  stroke  of 
both  hands,  due  preparation  having  been  made  for  the  stroke 
by  lifting  both  to  about  the  height  of  the  forehead.  It  is 
especially  imjx)rtant  for  the  student  to  take  notice  that  all,  or 
nearly  all,  of  the  emphatic  gestures  of  the  hand  and  arm  may 
be  made  still  more  emphatic  by  combining  with  them  a  simul- 
taneous nod.     (See  pages  92,  93.) 


100  TMM  SIXTH  READER. 


IV.  CONVENTIONAL  GESTURES. 

Under  this  head  we  include  thoee  gestnree  which  by  com- 
mon usa^e  have  come  to  have  a  certain  significance,  without 
being  palpably  founded  on  place,  manner,  or  degree ;  that  is, 
they  do  not  indicate  locality,  nor  do  they  imitate,  nor  em- 
phasize. Such  is  the  uplifted  hand,  the  fingers  perpendicular 
and  joined,  the  palm  turned  to  the  front,  at  the  height  of  the 
face;  that  being  the  position  required  in  the  administration 
of  an  oath.  Such  are  the  bow  of  a  speaker  to  his  audience 
at  the  beginning  of  his  address ;  the  clasping  of  the  hands  or 
placing  the  palms  together  in  front  of  the  breast  in  the  act  of 
adoration ;  folding  the  arms  across  the  breast,  indicating  com- 
posure ;  kneeling  in  the  act  of  prayer ;  the  nod  of  affirmation  ; 
and  the  shaking  of  the  head,  indicating  negation.  Conven- 
tional gestures  are  not  very  numerous. 

y.  0ESTUBB3  OF  ACTUAL  PERFORlfANCE. 

These  hardly  need  to  be  mentioned  They  are  simply  the 
motions  of  a  speaker  performing  what  he  describes,  or  manipu- 
lating implements ;  as  of  a  chemical  lecturer  handling  retorts, 
crucibles,  etc 

DIRECTIONS. 

1.  Avoid  all  awkward,  ungainly,  or  uncouth  gestures  and 
attitudes.  It  is  a  good  rule  never  to  take,  unless  unavoidable, 
and  never  to  remain  in,  a  posture  in  which  you  would  not 
be  willing  to  have  your  picture  taken,  or  in  which  you  would 
not  be  willing  to  be  represented  in  a  marble  statue. 

2.  Unless  the  significance  of  the  passage  require  it,  avoid 
gestures  that  move  in  a  straight  line.  So  fer  as  practicable, 
the  hand  should  generally  move  in  a  curve. 

3.  Examine  the  passage  beforehand,  and  ascertain   if  any 


INTRODUCTION.  101 

gestur(»8  of  place  are  requisite  U>  present  cle^rjy  tbe  ideas ; 
and  then  examine  it  in  order  to  disco vir  v^het!le^  f»dditlcral 
distinctness  or  vividness  can  be  added  by  gestures  of  imitaiion. 
If  you  feel  like  imitating,  imitate ;  being  careful,  however,  as 
Shakespeare  advises,  "  not  to  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature." 
\.  There  will  be  little  need  of  scrutinizing  the  passage  to 
discover  where  gestures  of  emphasis  may  be  needed.  One  who 
feels  deeply  what  ho  is  saying,  may  generally,  so  far  as  mere 
emphasis  is  concerned,  safely  yield  to  the  impulses  of  nature. 
If  you  feel  like  striking,  strike. 

5.  Let  your  face  and  your  attitude  express  the  state  of  vour 
mind ;  not  the  opposite,  except  for  comic  effect. 

6.  Use  no  gesture  for  which  you  cannot  give  a  good  reason. 

7.  Finally,  the  complete  elocutionary  analysis  of  any  pas- 
sage will  include  the  process  laid  down  on  pages  53,  64  tor  the 
elements  of  vocal  expression. 


The  Sixth  Reader. 


I. —  CONSTITUTIONAL  OBLIGATIONS  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  PEOPLE. 

JOHN  QUmCY  ADAMS. 

JoHW  QcnrcY  Adams  was  l)om  in  Braintree,  Massachnsetts,  July  11,  1767,  and 
died  at  Waahington,  February  23,  1848.  He  was  for  half  a  century  in  the  service  of 
his  country,  as  Foreign  Minister,  United  States  Senator,  Secretary  of  State,  President 
of  the  United  States,  and  from  1831  to  the  time  of  his  death  member  of  the  House 
of  RepresentatiTes.  He  was  a  man  of  indomitable  energj-,  dauntless  courage,  inde- 
fatigable indostry,  and  ardent  patriotism.  Hia  politick  opinions  made  him  many 
enemies,  especially  in  his  declining  years,  but  no  one  ever  doubted  his  honesty  and 
integrity,  or  failed  to  resi>ect  the  spotless  purity  of  his  private  life.  His  systematic 
industry  enabled  him  to  accomplish  an  inimensc  deal  of  work.  He  was  a  man  of 
extensive  learning,  and  familiar  with  ancient  and  modem  literature.  His  writings, 
consisting  of  speeches,  addresses,  lectures,  and  reports,  are  numerous  enough  to  All 
several  volumes.  He  waa  for  a  short  time  professor  of  rhetoric  and  oratory  in  Har- 
vard College,  and  the  lectures  he  delivered  in  that  capacity  were  published  in  1810, 
in  two  octavo  volumes.  The  following  extract  is  from  a  discourse  entitled  "  The 
Jubilee  of  the  Constitution,"  delivered  at  New  York  on  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  adoption  of  that  instrument 

WHEN  the  children  of  Israel,  after  forty  years  of 
wanderings  in  the  wilderness,  were  about  to 
enter  upon  the  promised  land,  their  leader,  Moses,  who 
was  not  permitted  to  cross  the  Jordan  with  them,  just 
before  his  removal  from  among  them,  commanded  that 
when  the  Lord  their  God  should  have  brought  them  into 
the  land,  they  should  put  the  curse  upon  Mount  Ebal 
and  the  blessing  upon  Mount  Gerizim. 

This  injunction  was  faithfully  fulfilled  by  his  successor, 
Joshua.    Immediately  after  they  had  taken  possession  of 


104  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

the  land,  Joshua  built  an  altar  to  the  Lord  of  whole 
stones  upon  Mount  Ebal ;  and  there  he  wrote  upon  the 
stones  a  copy  of  the  law  of  Moses,  which  he  had  written 
in  the  presence  of  the  children  of  Israel  And  all  Israel, 
and  their  elders  and  officers,  and  their  judges,  stood  on 
the  two  sides  of  the  ark  of  the  covenant,  borne  by  the 
priests  and  Levites,  —  six  tribes  over  against  Mount  Greri- 
zim,  and  six  over  against  Mount  Ebal ;  and  he  read  all 
the  words  of  the  law,  the  blessings  and  cursings,  accord- 
ing to  all  that  was  written  in  the  book  of  the  law. 

Fellow-citizens,  the  ark  of  your  covenant  is  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence  ;  your  Mount  Ebal  is  the 
confederacy  of  separate  State  sovereignties ;  and  your 
Mount  Gerizim  is  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 
In  that  scene  of  tremendous  and  awful  solemnity,  nar- 
rated in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  there  is  not  a  cui-se  pro- 
nounced against  the  people  upon  Mount  Ebal,  not  a 
blessing  promised  them  upon  Mount  Gerizim,  which 
your  posterity  may  not  suffer  or  enjoy  from  your  and 
their  adherence  to  or  departure  from  the  principles  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  practically  interwoven 
in  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

Lay  up  these  principles,  then,  in  your  hearts  and  in 
your  souls ;  bind  them  for  signs  upon  your  heads,  that 
they  may  be  as  frontlets  between  your  eyes  ;  teach  them 
to  your  children,  speaking  of  them  when  sitting  in  your 
houses,  when  walking  by  the  way,  when  lying  down,  and 
when  rising  up ;  write  them  upon  the  door-plates  of  your 
houses,  and  upon  your  gates ;  cling  to  them  as  to  the 
issues  of  life ;  adhere  to  them  as  to  the  cords  of  your 
eternal  salvation  !  So  may  your  children's  children,  at 
the  next  return  of  this  day  of  jubilee,  after  a  full  century 
of  experience  under  your  national  Constitution,  celebrate 


TO  A    IVATERFOrVL.  105 

it  again,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  all  the  blessings  recog- 
nized by  you  in  commemoration  of  this  day,  and  of  all 
the  blessings  promised  to  the  children  of  Israel  upon 
Mount  Gerizim  as  the  reward  of  obedience  to  the  law  of 
God! 


II  — TO  A  WATERFOWL 

BRYANT. 

WiLLlAJf  CoLLEN  BRYANT  was  bom  in  Curomington,  Massachuststts,  November  3, 
1794.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  soon  left  the  profession  of  the  law,  and  has 
for  many  years  resided  in  or  near  the  city  of  New  York,  as  one  of  the  editors  and 
proprietors  of  the  "  New  York  Evening  Post,"  a  daily  paper  which  has  a  wide  circu- 
lation and  much  influence.  It  is  not  necessary  to  point  out,  at  any  length,  the  merits 
of  a  poet  whose  productions  were  the  delight  of  his  own  countrymen,  and  were  well 
known  abroad,  long  before  the  young  persons  for  whose  use  this  work  is  intended 
were  bom.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  his  poems  are  distingiiished  by  the  perfect  finish 
of  their  style,  their  elevated  tone,  their  dignity  of  sentiment,  and  their  lovely  pictures 
of  American  scenery.  He  is,  at  once,  the  most  truthful  and  the  most  delightful  of 
painters.  We  find  in  his  pages  all  the  most  obvious  and  all  the  most  retiring  graces 
of  our  native  landscapes,  but  nothing  borrowed. from  books,  —  nothing  transplanted 
from  a  foreign  soil. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  1 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky. 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide. 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  Y 


106  THE  SIXTH  JiKADER. 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  fiir  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone  ;  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  soon  depart 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright 


III  — THE  BURNING  OF  MOSCOW. 


ON  the  14th  of  September,  1812,  while  the  rear-guard 
of  the   Eussians    were   in   the   act   of  evacuating 
Moscow,  Napoleon  reached  the  hill  called  the  ^Vlount  of 


THE  BUKMMJ   uF  MUSCUir.  107 

Salvation,  because  it  is  there  that  the  natives  kneel  and 
cross  themselves  at  first  sight  of  the  Holy  City. 

Moscow  seemed  lordly  and  striking  as  ever,  with  the 
steeples  of  its  thirty  churches  and  its  copper  domes 
glittering  in  the  sun  ;  its  palaces  of  Eastern  architecture, 
mingled  with  trees  and  surrounded  with  gardens ;  and 
its  Kremlin,  a  huge  triangular  mass  of  towers,  something 
between  a  palace  and  a  castle,  which  rose  like  a  citadel 
out  of  the  general  mass  of  groves  and  buildings.  But 
not  a  chimney  sent  up  smoke,  not  a  man  appeared  on  the 
battlements  or  at  the  gates. 

Napoleon  gazed,  every  moment  expecting  to  see  a  train 
of  bearded  boyars  arriving  to  fling  themselves  at  his 
feet,  and  place  their  wealth  at  his  disposal.  His  first 
exclamation  was,  "  Behold  at  last  that  celebrated  city ! " 
His  next,  "  It  was  full  time  !"  His  army,  less  regardful 
of  the  past  or  the  future,  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  goal  of 
their  wishes,  and  a  shout  of  "  Moscow  !  Moscow  ! "  passed 
from  rank  to  rank 

When  he  entered  the  gates  of  Moscow,  Bonaparte,  as 
if  unwilling  to  encounter  the  sight  of  the  empty  streets, 
stopped  immediately  on  entering  the  first  suburb.  His 
troops  were  quartered  in  the  desolate  city. 

During  the  first  few  hours  after  their  arrival  an  obscure 
rumor,  which  could  not  be  traced,  but  one  of  those  which 
are  sometimes  found  to  get  abroad  before  the  approach  of 
some  awful  certainty,  announced  that  the  city  would  be 
endangered  by  fire  in  the  course  of  the  night.  The  report 
seemed  to  arise  from  those  evident  circumstances  which 
rendered  the  event  probable  ;  but  no  one  took  any  notice 
of  it  until  at  midnight,  when  the  soldiers  were  startled 
from  their  quarters  by  the  report  tliat  tlie  town  was  in 
flames. 


108  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

The  memorable  conflagration  began  amongst  the  ware- 
houses and  workshops  in  the  bazaar,  or  general  market, 
which  was  the  richest  district  of  the  city.  It  was  im- 
puted to  accident,  and  the  progress  of  the  flames  was  sub- 
dued by  the  exertions  of  the  French  soldiers. 

Napoleon,  who  had  been  aroused  by  the  tumult,  hurried 
to  the  spot ;  and  when  the  alarm  seemed  at  an  end,  he 
retired,  not  to  his  former  quarters  in  the  suburbs,  but  to 
the  Kremlin,  the  hereditary  palace  of  the  only  sovereign 
whom  he  had  ever  treated  as  an  equal,  and  over  whom 
his  successful  arms  had  now  attained  such  an  apparently 
immense  superiority.  Yet  he  did  not  suffer  himself  to  l^e 
dazzled  by  the  advantage  he  had  obtained,  but  availed 
himself  of  the  light  of  the  blazing  bazaar  to  write  to  the 
Emperor  proposals  of  peace  with  his  own  hand. 

They  were  despatohed  by  a  Russian  officer  of  rank, 
who  had  been  disabled  by  indisposition  from  following 
tlie  army ;  but  no  answer  was  ever  returned. 

Next  day  the  flames  had  disappeared,  and  the  French 
officers  luxuriously  employed  themselves  in  selecting 
out  of  the  deserted  palaces  of  Moscow  that  which  best 
pleased  the  fancy  of  each  for  his  residence.  At  night 
the  flames  again  arose  in  the  north  and  west  quarters  of 
the  city. 

As  the  greater  part  of  the  houses  were  built  of  wood, 
the  conflagration  spread  with  the  most  dreadful  rapidity. 
This  was  at  first  imputed  to  the  blazing  brands  and  sparks 
which  were  carried  by  the  wind ;  but  at  length  it  was 
observed  that  as  often  as  the  wind  changed  —  and  it 
changed  three  times  in  that  terrible  night  —  new  flames 
broke  out  in  that  direction  where  the  existing  gale  was 
calculated  to  drive  them  on  the  Kremlin. 

These  horrors  were  increased  by  the  chance  of  explo- 


THE  BURNING  OF  MOSCOW.  109 

sion.  There  was,  though  as  yet  unknown  to  the  French, 
a  magazine  of  powder  in  the  Kremlin ;  besides  that,  a 
park  of  artillery,  with  its  ammunition,  was  drawn  up 
under  the  Emperor's  window. 

Morning  came,  and  with  it  a  dreadful  scene.  During 
the  whole  night  the  metropolis  had  glared  with  an  un- 
timely and  unnatural  light.  It  was  covered  with  a  thick 
and  suftbcating  atmosphere  of  almost  palpable  smoke. 
The  flames  defied  the  efforts  of  the  French  soldiery ;  and 
it  is  said  that  the  fountains  of  the  city  had  been  rendered 
inaccessible,  the  water-pipes  cut,  and  the  fire-engines  de- 
stroyed or  carried  off. 

Then  came  the  report  of  fireballs  having  been  found 
burning  in  deserted  houses;  of  men  and  women  that, 
like  demons,  had  been  seen  openly  spreading  flames,  and 
who  were  said  to  be  furnished  with  combustibles  for  ren- 
dering their  dreadful  work  more  secure.  Several  wretches 
against  whom  such  acts  had  been  charged  were  seized 
upon,  and,  probably  without  much  inquiry,  were  shot  on 
the  spot. 

While  it  was  almost  impossible  to  keep  the  roof  of 
the  Kremlin  clear  of  the  burning  brands  which  the  wind 
showered  down,  Napoleon  watched  from  the  windows  the 
course  of  the  fire  which  devoured  his  fair  conquest,  and 
the  exclamation  bui-st  from  him,  "  These  are  indeed 
Scythians  ! " 

The  equinoctial  gales  rose  higher  and  higher  upon  the 
third  night,  and  extended  the  flames,  with  which  there 
was  no  longer  any  human  i)o\ver  of  contending.  At  the 
dead  hour  of  raidniglit  the  Kremlin  itself  was  found  to 
be  on  fire.  A  soldier  of  the  Russian  police,  charged  with 
being  the  incendiary,  was  turned  over  to  the  summary 
vPTifjoanop  of  tbo  Tni|v>nal  Guard. 


110  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Bonaparte  was  then,  at  length,  persuaded  by  the  en- 
treaties of  aU  around  him  t<j  relinquisli  his  quarters  iu 
the  Kremlin,  to  which,  as  the  visible  mark  of  his  con- 
quest, he  had  seemed  to  cling  with  the  tenacity  of  a  lion 
holding  a  fragment  of  his  prey.  He  encountered  both 
difficulty  and  danger  in  retiring  from  the  palace ;  and 
before  he  c©uld  gain  the  city  gate  he  had  to  traverse, 
with  his  suite,  streets  arched  with  fire,  and  in  which  the 
very  air  they  breathed  was  suflocating. 

At  length  he  gained  the  open  country,  and  took  up  his 
abode  in  a  palace  of  the  Czar's  called  Petrowsky,  about  a 
French  league  from  the  city.  As  he  looked  back  on  the 
fire,  which,  under  the  influence  of  the  autumnal  wind, 
swelled  and  suiged  round  the  Kremlin  like  an  infernal 
ocean  around  a  sable  Pandemonium,  he  could  not  sup- 
press the  ominous  expression,  "  This  bodes  us  great  mis- 
fortune ! " 

The  fire  continued  to  triumph  unopposed,  and  con- 
sumed in  a  few  days  what  had  cost  centuries  to  raise. 
"  Palaces  and  temples,"  says  a  Russian  author,  "  monu- 
ments of  art  and  miracles  of  luxury,  the  remains  of  ages 
which  hati  passed  away  and  those  which  had  been  the 
creation  of  yesterday,  the  tombs  of  ancestors  and  the 
nursery-cradles  of  the  present  generation,  were  indis- 
criminately destroyed.  Nothing  was  left  of  Moscow 
save  the  remembrance  of  the  city,  and  the  deep  resolu- 
tion to  avenge  its  fall ! " 

The  fire  raged  till  the  19th  with  unabated  violence, 
and  then  began  to  slacken  for  want  of  fuel  Four  fifths 
of  this  great  city  were  laid  in  ruins. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND.  Ill 


IV._YE   MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND. 

CAMPBELL. 

Thomas  Campbell  wu  born  in  Glasgow,  July  27,  1777,  and  died  in  BoxUogne. 
France,  June  15, 1844.  Hlu  first  i^oeni,  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  was  published  in 
1799,  and  was  universally  read  and  admired.  His  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming"  was 
published  in  1809,  and  was  received  with  equal  favor.  It  contains  passages  of  great 
descriptive  beauty,  and  the  concluding  portions  are  full  of  pathos ;  but  the  stor)- 
moves  languidly,  and  there  is  a  want  of  truth  in  the  costume,  and  of  probability  in 
the  bicidents.  His  genius  is  seen  to  greater  advantage  in  his  shorter  poems,  such  as 
"O'Connor's  Child,"  •' Lochlel's  Warning,"  "  Hohenlinden,"  "The  Battle  of  the 
Baltic,"  and  "  Ye  Mariners  of  England."  These  are  matchless  poems,  with  a  ring 
and  power  that  stir  the  bl(X)d,  and  at  the  same  time  a  magic  of  expression  which 
fastens  the  words  forever  to  the  memory. 

YE  mariners  of  England, 
That  guard  our  native  seas, 
Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 
The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  meet  another  foe. 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ! 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  lou<l  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

"^n  ir.^y.,'^  along  the  steep; 


112  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 
She  quells  the  floods  below, 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore 
When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  bum. 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors, 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name. 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


v.  — THE  POLISH   BOY. 

MBS.  ANN  a  STEPHENa 

Axs  SoPHU  STKPHsrs  was  bom  in  Derby,  Connecticut;,  in  1813.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Winterbotham.  She  married  in  1832,  and  moved  to  Portland,  Maine, 
where  she  edited  "  The  Portland  Magazine  "  and  "  The  Portland  Sketcb-Book."  In 
1837  she  removed  to  New  York  City,  and  has  since  been  a  frequent  and  popular 
contributor  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  country.  She  has  published  several 
separate  works,  the  best  known  of  which  is  a  novel  called  "  Fashion  and  Famine." 
An  edition  of  her  works  was  published  in  1809  -  70,  in  fourteen  volumes. 

WHENCE  come  those  shrieks,  so  wild  and  shrill 
That  cut,  like  blades  of  steel,  the  air. 
Causing  the  creeping  blood  to  chill 
With  the  sharp  cadence  of  despair  1 


THE  POLISH  BOY.  113 

Again  they  come,  as  if  a  heart 
Were  cleft  in  twain  by  one  quick  blow, 
And  every  string  had  voice  apart 
To  utter  its  peculiar  woe. 

Whence  came  they  1  horn  yon  temple,  where 

An  altar,  raised  for  private  prayer. 

Now  forms  the  warrior's  marble  bed, 

Who  Warsaw's  gallant  army  led. 

The  dim  funereal  tapers  throw 

A  holy  lustre  o'er  his  brow, 

And  burnish,  with  their  rays  of  light, 

The  mass  of  curls,  that  gather  bright 

Above  the  haughty  brow  and  eye 

Of  a  young  boy  that 's  kneeling  by. 

What  hand  is  that,  whose  icy  press 
Clings  to  the  dead  with  death's  own  grasp, 
But  meets  no  answering  caress  1 
No  thrilling  fingers  seek  its  clasp  : 
It  is  the  hand  of  her  whose  cry 
Rang  wildly  late  upon  the  air, 
When  the  dead  warrior  met  her  eye, 
Outstretf^hed  Ti]v>n  tho  altar  there. 

With  j)allid  lip  and  stony  brow, 
She  murmurs  forth  her  anguish  now. 
But  hark  !  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet 
Is  heard  along  the  bloody  street ! 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  they  come. 
With  clanking  arms  and  noiseless  drum. 
Now  whispered  curses,  low  and  deep, 
Around  the  holy  temple  creep ;  — 
The  gate  i«  burst  !  a  niffian  band 
Rush  in  luul  savaurlv  donmnd. 


1U  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

With  brutal  voice  and  oath  profane, 
The  startled  boy,  for  exile's  chain ! 

The  mother  sprang  with  gesture  wild, 

And  to  her  bosom  clasped  her  child  ; 

Then,  with  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye, 

Shouted,  with  fearful  energy, 

'*  Back,  rufiSans,  back  !  nor  dare  to  tread 

Too  near  the  body  of  my  dead  ! 

Nor  touch  the  living  boy.  *  I  stand 

Between  him  and  your  lawless  band  ! 

Take  m«,  and  bind  these  arms,  these  hands, 

With  Russia's  heaviest  iron  bands, 

And  drag  me  to  Sibieria's  wild. 

To  perish,  if  *t  will  save  my  child  I " 

'*  Peace,  woman,  peace !  **  the  leader  cried, 

Tearing  the  pale  boy  from  her  side. 

And  in  his  ruffian  grasp  he  bore 

His  victim  to  the  temple  door. 

"  One  moment ! "  shrieked  the  mother,  "  one  1 

Will  land  or  gold  redeem  my  son  t 

Take  heritage,  take  name,  take  all, 

But  leave  him  fiiee  from  Russian  thrall ! 

Take  these  !  "     And  her  white  arms  and  hands 

She  stripped  of  rings  and  diamond  bands, 

And  tore  from  braids  of  long  black  hair 

The  gems  that  gleamed  like  starlight  there. 

Her  cross  of  blazing  rubies,  last 

Down  at  the  Russian's  feet  she  cast. 

He  stooped  to  seize  the  glittering  store  ; 
Upspringing  from  tlie  marble  floor 
The  mother,  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
•Snatched  to  her  leaping  heart  the  boy  ! 


THE  POLISH  BOY,  115 

But  no  !  the  Russian's  iron  grasp 
Again  undid  the  mother's  clasp. 
Forward  she  fell  with  one  long  cry 
Of  more  than  mortal  agony. 

But  the  brave  child  is  roused  at  length, 

And,  breaking  from  the  Russian's  hold, 

He  stands,  a  giant  in  the  strength 

Of  his  young  spirit  fierce  and  bold. 

Proudly  he  towers ;  his  flashing  eye 

So  blue,  and  yet  so  bright. 

Seems  kindled  from  the  eternal  sky, 

So  brilliant  is  its  light. 

His  curling  lips  and  crimson  cheeks 

Foretell  the  thought  before  he  speaks. 

Witli  a  full  voice  of  proud  command 

He  turns  upon  the  wondering  band  : 

"  Ye  hold  me  not !  no,  no,  nor  can  ! 

This  hour  has  made  the  boy  a  man. 

I  knelt  beside  my  slaughtered  sire, 

Nor  f»'lt  one  throb  of  vengeful  ire. 

I  wept  upon  his  marble  brow. 

Yes,  wept !  I  was  a  child  ;  but  now  — 

My  noble  mother  on  her  knee 

Has  done  the  work  of  years  for  me !  " 

He  drew  aside  his  broulered  vest. 

And  there,  like  slumbering  serpent's  crest, 

The  jewelled  haft  of  poniard  bright 

Glittered  a  moment  on  the  sight. 

"  Ha !  start  ye  back  1     Fool !  coward  !  knave  ! 

Think  ye  my  noble  father's  glaive 

Would  drink  the  life-blood  of  a  slave  ] 

The  ]>caris  that  on  the  handle  flame 

Would  blush  to  nibit's  in  fli.ir  •^li.inie  : 


116 


THE  SIXTH  READER 


The  blado  would  quiver  in  thy  breast, 
Afihamed  of  such  ignoble  rest. 
No  !  thus  I  rend  the  tyrant's  chain, 
And  fling  him  back  a  hotfs  ditdain  /*' 


AMERICAN  BATTLE-FLAGS.  117 

A  moment,  and  the  funeral  light 
Flashed  on  the  jewelled  weapon  bright ; 
Another,  and  his  young  heart's  blood 
Leaped  to  the  floor,  a  crimson  flood  ! 
Quick  to  his  mother's  side  he  sprang, 
And  on  the  air  his  clear  voice  rang  : 
"  Up,  mother,  up  !  look  on  thy  son ! 
His  freedom  is  forever  won  ! 
And  now  he  waits  one  holy  kiss 
To  bear  his  father  home  in  bliss ; 
One  last  embrace,  one  blessing,  —  one  ! 
To  prove  thou  know'st,  approv'st,  thy  son. 
What !  silent  yet  ]     Canst  thou  not  feel 
My  warm  blood  o'er  thy  heart  congeal  *? 
Speak,  mother,  speak !  lift  up  thy  head ! 
What !  silent  still  1    Then  art  thou  dead  ! 
Great  God  !  I  thank  thee  !     Mother,  I 
Rejoice  with  thee  —  and  thus  —  to  die  !  " 
One  long,  deep  breath,  and  his  pale  head 
Lay  on  his  mother's  bosom  —  dead  ! 


VI.— AMERICAN   BATTLE-FLAGS. 

CARL  8CHURZ. 

Carl  Schvbz.  an  American  statesman  and  orator,  waa  born  at  Llhlar,  near  Cologne. 
in  Geimany.  March  2,  1829,  Taking  an  earnest  part  in  the  revolutionary  movements 
of  '48  and  '40,  he  waa  forced  to  leave  his  native  country,  and  went  successively  to 
Switzerland,  Paris,  and  England.  He  came  to  this  country  in  1852.  He  first  at- 
tracted attention  as  an  orator,  in  the  Gennan  language,  in  tlie  Presidential  campaign 
of  18S&  He  took  a  leading  part  in  the  couvt-ntion  which  nominated  Mr.  Lincoln  for 
the  PreaMency.  and  in  the  canvass  which  followed  he  was  a  very  effective  speaker  in 
the  language  of  his  adopted  country. 

After  Mr.  Lincoln's  election,  he  waa  appointed  minister  to  Spain,  but  returned  to 
the  United  States,  December,  1801,  and  entered  the  military  service  as  brigadier^eneral 
of  Tolnnteera.    He  aenred  with  distinction  throughout  the  war. 

In  1809  h*  was  choaen  United  StatM  Senator  ttom  Missouri.    He  has  taken  a  very 


118  THr.   ^IXiU   KJlADJLIL 

oonspicQoas  put  in  th«  deliberaUotu  of  the  Senate.  Be  U  a  phUoeophical  thinker, 
M  well  M  an  eloqueut  «iieaker.  liis  speeches  show  a  niiiid  of  much  originalitx  and 
acuteneM,  and  he  never  addraeMS  the  Senate  without  carefUl  preparation. 

The  foUowlng  extract  is  fh>m  his  eulogy  on  Charles  Sumner,  deUvend  before  the 
city  authorities  of  Boston. 

In  defending  the  coons  of  Mr.  Sumner  in  moving  a  resolution  that  the  names  of 
the  Utiles  in  the  civil  war  should  tw  mnoved  fh>m  the  rcglraeuUl  colors  of  the  army 
and  the  anny  register.  Mr.  Schurx  defends  Uie  courae  of  Mr.  Sumner  by  a  reference 
to  parallel  examples  in  bUtory.  The  battle  of  the  Boyne  was  fought  July  1.  1000.  be- 
tween WiUiam  the  Thiitl.  at  the  bead  of  a  oonfedeimte  army  of  EnglUh  and  Dutch, 
and  the  French  and  Iri^h  under  James  the  Second.  The  result  was  the  defeat  of  James 
and  his  flight  into  France.  The  battle  of  Culloden  was  fought  April  16. 1764.  between 
the  English  troops,  commanded  by  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  the  Scotch  High 
landers,  led  by  Prince  Charles  Edward.    The  Utter  were  entirely  defeated  and  the  re- 


U  Vendte  is  the  name  of  a  department  in  Fkmnoe  in  which  a  Royalist  insurrection 
against  Bepabliean  France  broke  out  in  179S  and  continued  unUl  1796.  with  great  loss 
ofUliB  on  both  sides.  At  Villagos  a  Hungarian  army  under  Odrgey  surrendered  at 
discretion  to  the  Anstrians  and  Ruasians,  August  IS,  1849.  The  battle  of  Koniggratz 
was  ftmgfat  July  S.  180^  between  the  Prussians  under  the  flag  of  the  Black  Eagle. 
•nd  the  Austxians  and  Hanoverians,  in  whleh  the  Utter  were  whoUy  defeated. 
The  battU  of  LangenaaUa  was  fought  June  27. 1806.  the  result  of  which  was  that  the 
Anstrians  and  Hanoverians  were  defbeted  by  the  Prassians  and  obliged  to  capltuUte. 
The  batUe  of  Oravelotte  was  fought  between  the  Prussians  and  their  aUies  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  French  on  the  other.  August  16. 1870.  in  which  the  Utter  were  defeated 
after  a  desperate  and  bloody  conflict 


FROM  Europe  Mr.  Siimner  returned  late  in  the  fall 
of  1872,  much  strengthened,  but  far  from  being 
well  At  the  opening  of  the  session  he  reintroduced 
two  measures,  which,  as  he  thought,  should  complete 
the  record  of  his  political  life.  One  was  his  civil-rights 
bill,  which  had  failed  in  the  last  Congress ;  and  the 
other,  a  resolution  providing  that  the  names  of  the  battles 
won  over  fellow-citizens  in  the  war  of  the  Rebellion 
should  be  removed  from  the  regimental  colors  of  the 
army,  and  from  the  army  register. 

It  was  in  substance  only  a  repetition  of  a  resolution 
which  he  had  introduced  ten  years  before,  in  1862,  dur- 
ing the  war,  when  the  first  names  of  victories  were  put 
on  American  battle-flags.  This  resolution  called  forth  a 
new  storm  against  him.     It  was  denounced  as  an  insult 


AMERICAN  BATTLE-FLAGS.  119 

to  the  heroic  soldiers  of  the  Union,  and  a  degradation  of 
their  victories  and  well-earned  laurels.  It  was  condemned 
as  an  unpatriotic  act. 

Charles  Sumner  insult  the  soldiers  who  had  spilled 
their  blood  in  a  w^ar  for  human  rights  !  Charles  Sumner 
degrade  victories,  and  depreciate  laurels,  won  for  the 
cause  of  universal  freedom !  —  how  strange  an  imputa- 
tion! 

Let  the  dead  man  have  a  hearing.  This  was  his 
thought :  No  civilized  nation,  from  the  republics  of  an- 
tiquity down  to  our  days,  ever  thought  it  wise  or  patri- 
otic to  preserve  in  conspicuous  and  durable  form  the 
mementos  of  victories  won  over  fellow-citizens  in  civil 
war.  Why  not  ?  Because  every  citizen  should  feel  liim- 
self  with  all  others  as  the  child  of  a  common  country, 
and  not  as  a  defeated  foe.  All  civilized  governments  of 
our  days  have  instinctively  followed  the  same  dictate  of 
wisdom  and  patriotism. 

The  Irishman,  when  lighting  for  old  England  at  Water- 
loo, was  not  to  behold  on  the  red  cross  floating  above 
liim  the  name  of  the  Boyne.  The  Scotch  Highlander, 
when  standing  in  the  trenches  of  Sevastopol,  was  not  by 
the  colors  of  his  regiment  to  be  reminded  of  Culloden. 
No  French  soldier  at  Austerlitz  or  Solferino  had  to  read 
upon  the  tricolor  any  reminiscence  of  the  Vendue.* 
Xo  Hungarian  at  Sadowa  was  taunted  by  any  Austrian 
banner  with  the  surrender  of  Villagos.-|-  No  German 
regiment  from  Saxony  or  Hanover,  charging  under  the 
iron  hail  of  Gravelotte,  J  was  made  to  remember,  by 
words  written  on  a  Prussian  standard,  that  the  black 

•  Vendee,  YMn(g)-dS'. 
t  Villages,  v51-y5'gos. 

♦  Oravelotte,  grav-lOt'. 


120  THE  ^IXTH   HEADER, 

eagle  had  conquered  them  at  Koniggratz*  and  Lan- 
gensalza.*f 

Should  the  son  of  South  Carolina,  when  at  some  future 
day  defending  the  Republic  against  some  foreign  foe,  be 
reminded  by  an  inscription  on  the  colors  floating  over 
him,  that  under  this  flag  the  gun  was  fli-ed  that  killed  liis 
father  at  Gettysburg  ?  Should  this  great  and  enlightened 
Eepublic,  proud  of  standing  in  the  front  of  human  pro- 
gress, be  less  wise,  less  laige-hearted,  than  the  ancients 
were  two  thousand  years  ago,  and  the  kingly  governments 
of  Europe  are  to-day  ? 

Let  the  battle-flags  of  the  brave  volunk^ers,  wliich  they 
brought  home  from  the  war  with  the  glorious  record  of 
their  victories,  be  preserved  intact  as  a  proud  ornament 
of  our  State  Houses  and  armories ;  but  let  the  colors  of 
the  army,  under  which  the  sons  of  all  the  States  are  to 
meet  and  mingle  in  common  patriotism,  speak  of  nothing 
but  union,  —  not  a  union  of  conquerors  and  conquered, 
but  a  union  which  is  the  mother  of  all,  equally  tender  to 
all,  knowing  of  nothing?  but  equality,  peace,  and  love 
among  her  children. 

Do  you  want  conspicuous  mementos  of  your  victories  ? 
They  are  written  upon  the  dusky  brow  of  every  freeman 
who  was  once  a  slave  ;  they  are  written  on  the  gate-posts 
of  a  restored  Union  ;  and  the  most  glorious  of  all  will  be 
written  on  the  faces  of  a  contented  people,  reunited  in 
common  national  pride. 

Such  were  the  sentiments  which  inspired  that  resolu- 
tion. Such  were  the  sentiments  which  called  forth  a 
storm  of  obloquy.  Such  were  the  sentiments  for  which 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  passed  a  solemn  resolu- 

*  Koniggratz,  kdn'ig-grgtz. 
t  Langensalza,  l&ng-en-sal'tsa. 


AMERICAN  BATTLE-FLAOS.  121 

tion  of  censure  upon  Charles  Sumner,  —  Massachusetts, 
his  own  Massachusetts,  whom  he  loved  so  ardently  with 
a  filial  love,  of  whom  he  was  so  proud,  who  had  hon- 
ored him  so  much  in  days  gone  by,  and  whom  he 
had  so  long  and  so  faithfully  labored  to  serve  and  to 
honor. 

Oh  I  those  were  evil  days,  that  winter ;  days  sad  and 
dark,  when  he  sat  there  in  his  lonesome  chamber,  unable 
to  leave  it,  the  world  moving  around  him,  and  in  it  so 
much  that  was  hostile,  and  he  —  prostrated  by  the  tor- 
menting disease,  which  had  returned  with  fresh  violence 

—  unable  to  defend  himself,  and  with  this  bitter  arrow 
in  liis  heart.     Why  was  that  resolution  held  up  to  scorn 

lid  vituperation  as  an  insult  to  the  brave,  and  an  unpa- 
triotic act  ?  Wliy  was  he  not  attacked  and  condemned 
for  it  when  he  first  offered  it,  ten  years  before,  and  when 
he  was  in  the  fulness  of  manhood  and  power  ?  If  not 
then,  why  now  ?    Why  now  ? 

I  shall  never  forget  the  melancholy  hours  I  sat  with 
him,  seeking  to  lift  him  up  with  cheering  words,  and  he 

—  his  frame  for  hours  racked  with  excruciating  pain,  and 
then  exhausted  with  suffering  —  gloomily  brooding  over 

he  thought  that  he  might  die  so. 

How  thankful  T  am,  how  thankful  every  human  soul 
in  Massachusetts,  how  thankful  every  American  must  be, 
that  he  did  not  die  then  !  —  and,  indeed,  more  than  once 
leath  seemed  to  be  knocking  at  his  door,  —  how  thankful 
hat  he  was  spared  to  see  the  day,  when  the  people,  by 
striking  developments,  were  convinced  -that  those  who 
had  acted  as  he  did  had  after  all  not  been  impelled  by 
mere  whims  of  vanity,  or  reckless  ambition,  or  sinister 
designs,  but  had  good  and  patriotic  reasons  for  what  they 
ili.l  •  wi.MU  the  heart  of  Massachusetts  came  back  to  him 


122  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

full  of  the  old  love  and  confidence,  assuring  him  that  he 
would  again  be  her  chosen  son  for  her  representative  seat 
in  the  House  of  States ;  when  the  lawgivers  of  the  old 
Commonwealth,  obeying  an  irresistible  impulse  of  jus- 
tice, wiped  away  from  the  records  of  the  Legislature,  and 
from  the  fair  name  of  the  State,  that  resolution  of  censure 
which  had  stung  him  so  deeply ;  and  when  returning 
vigor  lifted  him  up,  and  a  new  sunburst  of  hope  illumined 
his  life  !  How  thankful  we  all  are  that  he  lived  that  one 
year  longer ! 

And  yet, —  have  you  thought  of  it  ? — if  he  had  died 
in  those  dark  days,  when  so  many  clouds  hung  over  him, 
would  not  then  the  much-vilified  man  have  been  the 
same  Charles  Sumner,  whose  death  but  one  year  later 
afflicted  millions  of  hearts  with  a  pang  of  bereavement, 
whose  praise  is  now  on  every  lip  for  the  purity  of  his 
life,  for  his  fidelity  to  great  principles,  and  for  the  lofti- 
ness of  his  patriotism  ? 

Was  he  not  a  year  ago  the  same,  —  the  same  in  pur- 
pose, the  same  in  principle,  the  same  in  character  ?  What 
had  he  done  then  that  so  many  who  praise  him  to-day 
should  have  then  disowned  him  ?  See  what  he  had  done. 
He  had  simply  been  true  to  his  convictions  of  duty.  He 
had  approved  and  urged  what  he  thought  right ;  he  had 
attacked  and  opposed  what  he  thought  wrong. 

To  his  convictions  of  duty  he  had  sacrificed  political 
associations  most  dear  to  him,  the  security  of  his  position 
of  which  he  was  proud.  For  his  convictions  of  duty  he 
had  stood  up  against  those  more  powerful  than  he ;  he 
had  exposed  himself  to  reproach,  obloquy,  and  persecu- 
tion. Had  he  not  done  so,  he  would  not  have  been  the 
man  you  praise  to-day ;  and  yet  for  doing  so  he  was  cried 
down  but  yesterday. 


THE  CONTRAST;  OR,  PEACE  AND   li'AIi.         123 

He  had  lived  up  tx)  the  great  word  he  spoke  when  he 
entered  the  Senate,  — "  The  slave  of  principle,  I  call  no 
party  master."  That  declaration  was  greeted  with  ap- 
plause ;  and  when,  true  to  his  word,  he  refused  to  call  a 
party  master,  the  act  was  covered  with  reproach. 


VII.  — THE  CONTRAST;  OR,  PEACE  AND  WAR. 

ATHENiEUM. 

PEACE. 

LOVELY  art  thou,  O  Peace !  and  lovely  are  thy  chil- 
dren, and  lovely  are  the  prints  of  thy  footsteps  in 
the  green  valleys. 

Blue  wreaths  of  smoke  ascend  through  the  trees,  and 
betray  the  half-hidden  cottage ;  the  eye  contemplates 
well-thatched  ricks,  and  bams  bursting  with  plenty : 
the  peasant  laughs  at  the  approach  of  winter. 

White  houses  peep  through  the  trees ;  cattle  stand 
cooling  in  the  pool ;  the  casement  of  the  farm-house  is 
covered  with  jessamine  and  honeysuckle;  the  stately 
greenhouse  exliales  the  perfume  of  summer  climates. 

Children  climb  the  green  mound  of  the  rampart,  and 
ivy  holds  together  the  half-demolished  buttress. 

The  old  men  sit  at  their  doors ;  the  gossip  leans  over 
her  counter ;  the  children  shout  and  frolic  in  the  streets. 
^The  housewife's  stores  of  bleached  linen,  whiter  than 
snow,  are  laid  up  with  fragrant  herbs  ;  they  are  the  pride 
of  the  matron,  the  toil  of  many  a  winter's  niglit. 

Tlie  wares  of  tlie  merchant  are  spread  abroad  in  the 
ahops,  or  stored  in  the  higli-pUed  warehouses ;  the  labor 


124  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

of  each  profits  all ;  the  inhabitant  of  the  north  drinks 
the  fragrant  herb  of  China ;  the  peasant's  child  wears  the 
webs  of  Hindostan. 

The  lame,  the  blind,  and  the  aged  repose  in  hospitals ; 
the  rich,  softened  by  prosperity,  pity  the  poor ;  the  poor, 
disciplined  into  order,  respect  the  rich. 

Justice  is  dispensed  to  alL  Law  sits  steady  on  her 
throne,  and  the  sword  is  her  servant 

WAR. 

They  have  rushed  through  like  a  hurricane;  like  an 
army  of  locusts  they  have  devoured  the  earth ;  the  war 
has  fallen  like  a  water-spout,  and  deluged  the  land  with 
blood. 

The  smoke  rises  not  through  the  trees,  for  the  honors 
of  the  grove  are  fallen,  and  the  hearth  of  the  cottager  is 
cold ;  but  it  rises  from  villages  burned  with  fire,  and  from 
warm  ruins  spread  over  the  now  naked  plain. 

The  ear  is  filled  with  the  confused  bellowing  of  oxen, 
and  sad  bleating  of  overdriven  sheep;  they  are  swept 
from  their  peaceful  plains;  with  shouting  and  goading 
are  they  driven  away :  the  peasant  folds  his  arms,  and 
resigns  his  faithful  fellow-laborers. 

The  farmer  weeps  over  his  bams  consumed  by  fire,  and 
his  demolished  roof,  and  anticipates  the  driving  of  the 
winter  snows. 

On  that  rising  ground,  where  the  green  turf  looks  black 
with  fire,  yesterday  stood  a  noble  mansion;  the  owner 
had  said  in  his  heart :  "  Here  will  I  spend  the  evening 
of  my  days,  and  enjoy  the  fruit  of  my  years  of  toil ;  my 
name  shall  descend  with  mine  inheritance,  and  my  chil- 
dren's children  shall  sport  under  the  trees  which  I  have 
planted."     The  fruit  of  his  years  of  toil  is  swept  away  in 


THE  CONTRAST:    nn.  PEACE  AND  WAR.       125 

a  moment ;  wasted,  not  enjoyed  ;  and  the  evening  of  his 
days  is  left  desolate. 

The  temples  are  profaned ;  the  soldier's  curse  resounds 
in  the  house  of  God ;  the  marble  pavement  is  trampled 
by  iron  hoofs ;  horses  neigh  beside  the  altar. 

Law  and  order  are  forgotten ;  violence  and  rapine  are 
abroad ;  the  golden  cords  of  society  are  loosed. 

Here  are  the  shriek  of  woe  and  the  cry  of  anguish ; 
and  there  is  suppressed  indignation  bursting  the  heart 
with  silent  despair. 

The  groans  of  the  wounded  are  in  the  hospitals,  and  by 
the  roadside,  and  in  every  thicket ;  and  the  housewife's 
web,  whiter  than  snow,  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  stanch  the 
blood  of  her  husband  and  children.  Look  at  that  youth, 
the  first-born  of  her  strength ;  yesterday  he  bounded  as 
the  roebuck ;  was  glowing  as  the  summer  fruits ;  active 
in  sports,  strong  to  labor :  he  has  passed  in  one  moment 
from  youth  to  age ;  his  coitieliness  has  departed ;  help- 
lessness is  his  portion  for  the  days  of  future  years.  He 
is  more  decrepit  than  his  grandsire,  on  whose  head  are 
the  snows  of  eighty  winters ;  but  those  were  the  snows 
of  nature ;  this  is  the  desolation  of  man. 

Everything  unholy  and  unclean  comes  abroad  from  its 
lurking-place,  and  deeds  of  darkness  are  done  beneath 
the  eye  of  day.  The  villagers  no  longer  start  at  horrible 
sights ;  the  soothing  rites  of  burial  are  denied,  and  liuman 
bones  are  tossed  by  human  hands. 

No  one  careth  for  another ;  every  one,  hardened  by 
misery,  careth  for  himself  alone. 

Lo,  these  are  what  God  has  set  before  thee,  child  of 
reason !  son  of  woman !  Unto  which  does  thine  heart 
incline  ? 


126  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

VIIL— THE  MISERIES   OF  WAR 

HALI^ 

Robert  Hall  was  born  in  Arnsby,  Leicestershire,  England,  May  2, 1764,  and  died 
in  Bristol,  February  21,  1831.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Aberdeen,  in 
Scotland,  became  a  clergyman  of  the  Baptist  persuasion,  and  was  settled  first  at 
Bristol,  next  at  Cambridge,  then  at  Leicester,  and  lastly  at  Bristol  again.  He  was  a 
very  ehxjuent  and  popular  preacher,  and  hardly  less  remarkable  for  conversational 
I>owcr.  He  was  of  robust  figure,  but  of  feeble  health,  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  self-reliance  and  intellectual  strength.  His  works,  edited,  with  a  memoir,  by 
Olinthus  Gregory,  and  with  an  estimate  of  his  character  as  a  preacher,  by  John  Fos- 
ter, have  been  published  in  England  and  America.  They  consist  of  sermons,  occa- 
sional productions,  and  contributions  to  periodical  literature.  Their  style  is  rich, 
animated,  and  pore. 

THOUGH  the  whole  race  of  man  is  doomed  to  disso- 
lution, and  we  are  all  hastening  to  our  long  home, 
yet  at  each  successive  moment  life  and  death  seem  to 
divide  between  them  the  dominion  of  mankind,  and  life 
to  have  the  larger  share.  It  is  otherwise  in  war ;  death 
reigns  there  without  a  rival,  and  without  control.  War 
is  the  work,  the  element,  or  rather  the  sport  and  triumph, 
of  Death,  who  glories  not  only  in  the  extent  of  his  con- 
quest, but  in  the  richness  of  his  spoil.  In  the  other 
methods  of  attack,  in  the  other  forms  which  death  as- 
sumes, the  feeble  and  the  aged,  who  at  the  best  can  live 
but  a  short  time,  are  usually  the  victims ;  here  they  are 
the  vigorous  and  the  strong. 

It  is  remarked  by  the  most  ancient  of  poets,*  that  in 
peace,  children  bury  their  parents ;  in  war,  parents  bury 
their  children  :  nor  is  the  difference  small.  Children  la- 
ment their  parents,  sincerely,  indeed,  but  with  that  mod- 
erate and  tranquil  sorrow  which  it  is  natural  for  those  to 
feel  who  are  conscious  of  retaining  many  tender  ties,  many 
animating  prospects.  Parents  mourn  for  their  children 
with  the  bitterness  of  despair ;  the  aged  parent,  the  wid- 
owed mother,  loses,  when  she  is  deprived  of  her  children, 

*  Homer. 


THE  Mrs?:RrES  of  war.  127 

everything  but  the  capacity  of  suffering :  her  heart,  with- 
ered and  desolate,  admits  no  other  object,  cherishes  no 
other  hope.  It  is  Rachel,  weeping  for  her  children,  and 
refusing  to  be  comforted,  because  they  are  not. 

But  to  confine  our  attention  to  the  number  of  the  slain 
would  give  us  a  very  inadequate  idea  of  the  ravages  of  the 
sword.  The  lot  of  those  who  perish  instantaneously  may 
be  considered,  apart  from  religious  prospects,  as  compara- 
tively happy,  since  they  are  exempt  from  those  lingering 
diseases  and  slow  torments  to  which  others  are  liable.  We 
cannot  see  an  individual  expire,  though  a  stranger,  or  an 
enemy,  without  being  sensibly  moved,  and  prompted  by 
compassion  to  lend  him  every  assistance  in  our  power. 
Every  trace  of  resentment  vanishes  in  a  moment ;  every 
other  emotion  gives  way  to  pity  and  terror. 

In  these  last  extremities  we  remember  nothing  but  the 
respect  and  tenderness  due  to  our  common  nature.  What  a 
scene,  then,  must  a  field  of  battle  present,  where  thousands 
are  left  without  assistance  and  without  pity,  with  their 
wounds  exposed  to  the  piercing  air,  while  the  blood,  freezing 
as  it  flows,  binds  them  to  the  earth,  amidst  the  trampling 
of  horses  and  the  insults  of  an  enraged  foe  ! 

If  they  are  spared  by  tlie  humanity  of  the  enemy,  and 
carried  from  the  field,  it  is  but  a  prolongation  of  torment. 
Conveyed  in  uneasy  vehicles,  often  to  a  remote  distance, 
through  roads  almost  impassable,  they  are  lodged  in  ill- 
prepared  receptacles  for  the  wounded  and  the  sick,  where 
the  variety  of  distress  baffles  all  the  efforts  of  humanity 
and  skill,  and  renders  it  impossible  to  give  to  each  the 
attention  he  demands.  Far  from  their  native  home,  no 
tender  assiduities  of  friendship,  no  well-known  voice,  no 
wife  or  mother  or  sister  is  near  to  soothe  their  sorrows, 
relieve  their  thirst,  or  close  their  eyes  in  death  !    Unhappy 


128  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

man  !  an(i  must  you  be  swept  into  the  grave  unnoticed 
and  unnumbered,  and  no  friendly  tear  be  shed  for  your 
sufferings,  or  mingled  with  your  dust  ? 

"We  must  remember,  however,  that  as  a  very  small  pro- 
portion of  a  military  life  is  spent  in  actual  combat,  so  it  is 
a  very  small  part  of  its  miseries  which  must  be  ascribed  to 
this  source.  More  are  consumed  by  the  rust  of  inactivity 
than  l)y  the  edge  of  the  sword ;  confined  to  a  scanty  or  un- 
wholesome diet,  exposed  in  sickly  climates,  harassed  with 
tiresome  marches  and  perpetual  alarms,  their  life  is  a  con- 
tinual scene  of  hai-dships  and  dangers.  They  grow  familiar 
with  hunger,  cold,  and  watchfulness.  Crowded  into  hos- 
pitals and  prisons,  contagion  spreads  amongst  their  ranks 
till  the  ravages  of  disease  exceed  those  of  the  enemy. 

We  have  hitherto  only  adverted  to  the  sufferings  of 
those  who  are  engaged  in  the  profession  of  arms,  without 
taking  into  our  account  the  situation  of  the  countries  which 
are  the  scenes  of  hostilities.  How  dreadful  to  hold  every- 
thing at  the  mercy  of  an  enemy,  and  to  receive  life  itself 
as  a  boon  dependent  on  the  sword !  How  boundless  the 
fears  which  such  a  situation  must  inspire,  where  the  issues 
of  life  and  death  are  determined  by  no  known  laws,  prin- 
ciples, or  customs,  and  no  conjecture  can  be  formed  of  our 
destiny,  except  as  far  as  it  is  dimly  deciphered  in  charac- 
ters of  blood,  in  the  dictates  of  revenge,  and  the  caprices 
of  power ! 

Conceive  but  for  a  moment  the  consternation  which  the 
approach  of  an  invading  army  would  impress  on  the  peace- 
ful villages  in  our  own  neighborhood.  When  you  have 
placed  yourselves  for  an  instant  in  that  situation,  you  will 
learn  to  sympathize  with  those  unhappy  countries  which 
have  sustained  the  ravages  of  arms.  But  how  is  it  possi- 
ble to  give  you  an  idea  of  these  horrors  ?    Here  you  behold 


WINTER.  129 

rich  harvests,  the  bounty  of  Heaven,  and  the  reward  of 
industry,  consumed  in  a  moment,  or  trampled  under  foot, 
while  famine  and  pestilence  follow  the  steps  of  desolation. 
There  the  cottages  of  peasants  given  up  to  the  flames, 
mothers  expiring  through  fear,  not  for  themselves  but  their 
infants ;  the  inhabitants  flying  with  their  helpless  babes, 
in  all  directions,  miserable  fugitives  on  their  native  soil ! 
In  another  part  you  witness  opulent  cities  taken  by  storm ; 
the  streets,  where  no  sounds  were  heard  but  those  of  peace- 
ful industry,  filled  on  a  sudden  with  slaughter  and  blood, 
resounding  with  the  cries  of  the  pursuing  and  the  pur- 
sued ;  the  palaces  of  nobles  demolished,  the  houses  of  the 
rich  pillaged,  and  every  age,  sex,  and  rank  mingled  in  pro- 
miscuous massacre  and  ruin ! 


IX.  — WINTER 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Jamzs  BrsscLL  Lowkll,  an  American  poet  and  man  of  letters,  was  bom  in  Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts,  Febmary  2,  1819.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in 
1838.  He  studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  never  practised  his  profes- 
sion. He  has  been  for  many  years  professor  of  belles-lettres  in  Harvard  College. 
He  is  a  man  of  original  genius,  and  in  variety  of  intellectual  power  has  no  equal 
among  our  men  of  letters.  He  has  very  rare  powers  of  wit  and  humor.  His  "  Fable 
for  Critics  "  is  a  brilliant  satire.  He  has  published  two  series  of  "  Biglow  Papers," 
so  called,  the  ttrst  of  which  has  liad  great  popularity  both  in  England  and  America. 
No  one  has  ever  u.scd  the  Yankee  dialect  with  so  much  skill  and  effect  as  he.  His 
serious  poems  are  remarkable  for  their  vigor,  originality,  and  depth  of  thought 
Many  of  them  have  been  called  forth  by  the  antislavery  conflict.  His  descriptions 
of  nature  are  vivid  and  beautiful.  He  has  published  two  volumes  in  prose,  called 
••Among  my  Books"  and  "My  Garden  Windows,"  which  contain  much  admirable 
criticism.  The  following  extract  is  fh)m  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Laonfal,"  a  poem 
founded  upon  the  Legend  of  King  Arthur. 

DOWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ; 
On  open  wold  and  hiU-top  bleak 


130  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

It  1i,k1  :j;illiriv<l  all  the  cold, 
And  whirl.'.!  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek; 
li  carried  a  .slJi^■t■r  everywhere 
From  the  unl«  aid  ImmiuIis  ami  pastures  bare; 
The  littlo  brook  hrar.l  it  an. I  laiilt  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  hoiix-  him,  wintci-proof ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  ^1.  i]ii> 
Mr  irmined*  his  arches  and  matrhr  !  '      '     ms  ; 
Sl(  udcr  and  clear  were  his  crystal  -i 
As  the  lashes  of  li;:ht  that  trim  ihf>tars; 
Hn  srnlptnrod  overy  tsumiii'      '   '     'it 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  «■  .  ht ; 

Sometimes  his  tiidJing  waters  shj»t 
Down  througli  a  li..st  leaved  forest-crypt, 
Long,  sparklinu  ;d>l.s  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  count,  rl.  it  a  breeze; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  .l-w  iiwiri  ;^tow  ; 
Somctii! 

With  i|uaiiii  ;iraocs4Uis  oi  icc-U'rn  leal; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
^r  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  tlirough,  and  here 
He  "had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 
.       And  hnrlp  them  thickly  ^^4th  diamond  drops, 
AVhich  cr\ -tailed  tli.-  l)eams  of  moon  and  sun, 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one  ; 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Could  match  thi-  winter-palace  of  ice; 
'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 
In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day. 
Each  flitting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  l^ippy  model  should  be  lost. 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

*  Groined :  adorned  with  intersecting  arches. 


fVINTKR. 


131 


Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel*  and  rafter 
With'  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly ; 
*  Corbel :  a  niche  in  a  wall. 


132  THE  SIXTH  READER 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap, 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind  ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind  ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks. 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer.  ,0 

But  the  will!  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Lauufal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings. 
Singing  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was  —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  !  " 

The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch. 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold. 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS.  133 


X.  — THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Hboit  Wadsworth  Loiroraxow  is  a  native  of  Portland.  Maine,  and  was  grada- 
at«d  at  Bowdoln  College  in  1825.  Soon  after  leaving  college  he  went  to  Europe,  and 
rrmained  there  till  1829.  Ho  then  returned  home  and  assumed  the  duties  of  professor 
of  modem  languages  at  Bowdoin  College.  He  resigned  his  post  in  1835,  and  visited 
Europe  again,  and  upon  his  return  in  1S36,  was  appointed  to  a  similar  professorship 
in  the  University  at  Cambridge.  Here  he  has  resided  ever  since,  but  he  resigned  his 
professorship  in  1854. 

Mr.  Longfellow  holds  a  very  high  rank  among  the  authors  of  America,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  ix)pular  of  living  poets.  He  has  written  "  Evangeline,"  "  The  Golden 
Legend,"  "The  Song  of  Hiawatha."  and  "Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,"  narrative 
poems  of  considerable  length ;  "  The  Spanish  Student,"  a  play ;  and  a  great  number 
of  smaller  pieces.  He  has  a  fhiitful  imagination,  under  the  coutrol  of  the  most 
perfect  taste,  and  a  remarkable  power  of  illustrating  moods  of  mind  and  states  of 
feeling  by  material  forms.  He  has  a  great  command  of  beautiful  diction,  and  equal 
skill  in  the  structure  of  his  verse.  His  poetry  is  marked  by  tenderness  of  feeling,  purity 
of  sentiment,  elevation  of  thought,  and  healthiness  of  tone.  His  readers  are  more 
than  admirers ;  they  become  friends.  And  over  all  that  he  has  written  there  hangs  a 
beautiful  ideal  light,  —the  atmosphere  of  poetry,  —  which  illuminates  his  page  as  the 
sanshine  does  the  natural  landscape. 

Mr.  Longfellow  has  also  won  enduring  praise  as  a  prose  writer.  His  "  Outre-mer," 
a  collection  of  travelling  sketches  and  miscellaneous  essays,  his  "Hyperion,"  a  ro- 
mance, and  his  "  Kavanagh,"  a  domestic  story,  are  marked  by  the  same  traits  as  his 
poetry.  He  is  a  "  warbler  of  poetic  prose."  and  would  be  entitled  to  the  honors  of  a 
poet  had  he  never  written  a  line  of  verse.  His  "  Hyperion."  especially,  is  full  of 
beautiful  description,  rich  fancy,  and  sweet  and  pensive  thought  He  is  also  a  man 
of  extensive  literary  attainments,  familiar  with  the  languages  of  modem  Europe,  and 
a  great  master  in  the  difficult  art  of  translation. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat ; 
Across  its  antique  portico, 
Tall  poplars-tees  their  shadows  throw  ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall, 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  1 " 


Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 


134  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  that  pass,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night. 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber  door,  — ^ 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever ! " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Througii  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe*,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played  ; 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed. 


Tin:   OLD   CLUCK  ON   TITK  STAIRS.  135 

O  precious  hours  !  (.)  goidoii  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white. 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  tliat  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled. 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  we  all  meet  again  ]  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by. 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  ! " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care. 
And  death  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 
The  horologe  of  eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  ** 


136  THE  STXTH  READER. 

XI.  — THE  SLAVE-TRADE. 

WEBSTER. 

Dakhel  Websteb  wm  born  at  Salisbury,  New  Hampshire,  January  18, 1782;  and 
died  at  Marshfleld,  Massachusetts,  October  24. 1862.  He  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth 
College  in  1801,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1805,  and  settled  in  Portsmouth,  New 
Hampshire,  in  1807.  He  wras  a  member  of  the  House  of  Representatives  from  New 
Hampshire  from  1813  to  1817.  In  the  latter  part  of  1816  he  removed  to  Boston,  and 
resided  in  that  city,  or  at  Marshfleld,  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  was 
chosen  to  the  House  of  Representatives  from  the  district  of  Boston,  in  1822,  and  was 
a  member  of  that  body  till  1827,  when  he  was  elected  to  the  United  States  Senate  by 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts.  He  continned  there  during  the  remainder  of  his 
life,  with  the  exception  of  two  intervals,  when  he  held  the  office  of  Secretary  of  State, 
first  under  the  administrations  of  Presidents  Harrison  and  Tyler,  and  secondly  under 
that  of  President  Fillmore. 

For  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  his  life,  Mr.  Webster's  biography  is  identified  with 
the  history  of  his  country  Having  been  a  leader  of  one  of  its  great  political  parties, 
the  time  has  hardly  yet  come  for  a  calm  and  unbiassed  judgment  to  be  passed  upon 
his  services  ;  but  no  candid  mind  will  ever  question  the  sincerity  and  comprehensive- 
ness of  his  patriotism,  still  less  the  splendor  of  his  intellectual  powers.  He  was  a 
great  lawyer,  a  great  statesman,  a  great  debater,  and  a  great  writer.  As  a  writer — 
in  which  point  of  view  alone  we  have  now  to  regard  him  —  he  stands  among  the  very 
first  of  his  class.  No  style  can  be  found  more  suited  for  the  subjects  of  which  it 
treats  than  his.  It  is  strong,  simple,  and  dignified ;  vehement  and  impassioned  when 
necessary  :  readily  rising  into  eloquence,  and  occasionally  touched  with  high  imagina- 
tive beauty.  He  excels  in  the  statement  of  a  case  or  the  exposition  of  a  principle ; 
and  in  his  occasional  disconrses  there  are  passages  of  a  lofty  moral  grandeur  by  which 
the  heart  and  mind  are  alike  affected.  Some  of  his  state  papers  may  fairly  challenge 
comparison  with  the  best  productions  of  the  kind  which  the  past  has  transmitted 
to  us. 

The  following  passage  is  taken  lh)m  a  discourse,  pronounced  at  Plymouth,  Decem- 
ber 22, 1820,  in  commemoration  of  the  first  settlement  of  New  England. 

IF  the  blessings  of  our  political  and  social  condition 
have  not  been  too  highly  estimated,  we  cannot  well 
overrate  the  responsibility  which  they  impose  upon  us. 
We  hold  these  institutions  of  government,  religion,  and 
learning  to  be  transmitted  as  well  as  enjoyed.  We  are 
in  the  line  of  conveyance  through  which  whatever  has 
been  obtained  by  the  spirit  and  efforts  of  our  ancestors 
is  to  be  communicated  to  our  children. 

We  are  bound  to  maintain  public  liberty,  and,  by  the 
example  of  our  own  systems,  to  convince  the  world  that 


THE  SLAVE-TRADE.  137 

order  and  law,  religion  and  morality,  the  rights  of  con- 
science, the  rights  of  persons,  and  the  rights  of  property, 
may  all  be  preserved  and  secured  in  the  most  perfect 
manner  by  a  government  entirely  and  purely  elective. 
If  we  fail  in  this,  our  disaster  will  be  signal,  and  will 
furnish  an  argument,  stronger  than  has  yet  been  found, 
in  support  of  those  opinions  which  maintain  that  gov- 
ernment can  rest  safely  on  notliing  but  power  and  coer- 
cion. 

As  far  as  experience  may  show  errors  in  our  establish- 
ments, we  are  bqjmd  to  correct  them ;  and  if  any  prac- 
tices exist  contrary  to'the  principles  of  justice  and  hu- 
manity, within  the  reacli  of  our  laws  or  our  influence,  we 
are  inexcusable  if  we  do  not  exert  ourselves  to  restrain 
and  abolish  them. 

I  deem  it  my  duty  on  this  occasion  to  suggest  that  the 
land  is  not  yet  wholly  free  from  the  contamination  of  a 
traffic  at  which  every  feeling  of  humanity  must  revolt,  — 
I  mean  the  African  slave-trade.  Neither  public  sentiment 
nor  the  law  has  yet  been  able  entirely  to  put  an  end  to 
this  odious  and  abominable  trade.  At  the  moment  when 
God  in  his  mercy  has  blessed  the  world  with  a  universal 
peace,  there  is  reason  to  fear  that,  to  the  disgrace  of  the 
Christian  name  and  character,  new  efforts  are  making  for 
the  extension  of  this  trade,  by  subjects  and  citizens  of 
Christian  states,  in  whose  hearts  no  sentiment  of  justice 
inhabits,  and  over  whom  neither  the  fear  of  God  nor  the 
fear  of  man  exercises  a  control. 

In  the  sight  of  our  law,  the  African  slave-trader  is  a 
pirate  and  a  felon ;  and  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  an  offender 
far  beyond  the  ordinaiy  depth  of  human  guilt.  There 
is  no  brighter  part  of  our  history  than  tliat  which  records 
the  measures  which  have  been  adopted  by  the  govern- 


138  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

ment  at  an  early  day,  and  at  different  times  since,  for  the 
suppression  of  this  traffic ;  and  I  would  call  upon  all  the 
true  sons  of  New  England  to  co-operate  with  the  laws  of 
man  and  the  justice  of  Heaven. 

If  there  be,  within  the  extent  of  our  knowledge  or 
influence,  any  participation  in  this  traffic,  let  us  pledge 
ourselves  here,  upon  the  Rock  of  Plymouth,  to  extirpate 
and  destroy  it.  It  is  not  fit  that  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims 
should  bear  the  shame  longer.  I  hear  the  sound  of  the 
hammer,  —  I  see  the  smoke  of  the  furnaces  where  man- 
acles and  fetters  are  still  forged  for  human  limbs.  I  see 
the  visages  of  those  who,  by  stealth  and  at  midnight, 
labor  in  this  work  of  hell,  foul  and  dark,  as  may  become 
the  artificers  of  such  instruments  of  misery  and  torture. 
Let  that  spot  be  purified,  or  let  it  cease  to  be  of  New 
England.  Let  it  be  purified,  or  let  it  be  set  aside  from 
the  Christian  world ;  let  it  be  put  out  of  the  circle  of 
human  sympathies  and  human  regards ;  and  let  civilized 
man  henceforth  have  no  communion  with  it. 

I  would  invoke  those  who  fiU  tlie  seats  of  justice,  and 
all  who  minister  at  her  altar,  that  they  execute  the  whole- 
some and  necessary  severity  of  the  law.  I  invoke  the 
ministers  of  our  religion,  that  they  proclaim  its  denuncia- 
tion of  these  crimes,  and  add  its  solemn  sanctions  to  the 
authority  of  human  laws.  If  the  pulpit  be  silent,  when- 
ever or  wherever  there  may  be  a  sinner,  bloody  with  this 
guilt,  within  the  hearing  of  its  voice,  the  pulpit  is  false  to 
its  trust. 

I  call  on  the  fair  merchant,  who  has  reaped  his  harvest 
upon  the  seas,  that  he  assist  in  scourging  from  those  seas 
the  worst  pirates  that  ever  infested  them.  That  ocean 
which  seems  to  wave  with  a  gentle  magnificence,  to  waft 
the  burdens  of  an  honest  commerce,  and  to  roll  its  treas- 


THE   P.ATTI.E  OF  FLnDDEy  FT  Em.  139 

ures  with  a  conscious  pride ;  that  ocean  whicli  hardy  in- 
dustry regards,  even  when  the  winds  have  ruffled  its  sur- 
face, as  a  lield  of  grateful  toil,  —  what  is  it  to  the  victim 
of  this  oppression  when  he  is  brouglit  to  its  shores,  and 
looks  forth  upon  it  for  the  first  time  from  beneath  chains 
and  bleeding  with  stripes? — What  is  it  to  him,  but  a 
widespread  prospect  of  suffering,  anguish,  and  death  ? 
Nor  do  the  skies  smile  longer ;  nor  is  the  air  fragrant  to 
him.  The  sun  is  cast  down  from  heaven.  An  inhuman 
and  cursed  traffic  has  cut  him  off  in  his  manhood,  or  in 
his  youth,  from  every  enjoyment  belonging  to  his  being, 
and  every  blessing  which  his  Creator  intended  for  him. 


XII.  — THE  BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN  FIELD. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  Augtwt  15, 1771 ;  and  died  at  Abbotsford, 
September  21,  1832.  In  1792  lie  was  called  to  the  Scotch  bar  as  an  advocate ;  but 
he  made  little  progress  in  his  profession,  and  was  soon  allured  from  it  by  the  higher 
attractions  of  literature.  After  having  written  and  published  a  few  fugitive  pieces, 
and  edited  a  collection  of  border  ballads,  he  broke  upon  the  world,  in  1805,  with  his 
"  Lay  of  the  I^ast  Minstrel."  which  was  received  with  a  burst  of  admiration  almost 
without  parallel  in  literary  history.  This  was  followed  by  "  Marmion,"  and  "  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake,"  which  added  to  the  author's  reputation,  and  by  "  Rokeby,"  and 
"The  Lord  of  the  Isles,"  which  fairly  sustained  it.  These  poems  were  unlike  any- 
thing that  had  prece<led  them.  Their  versification  was  easy  and  graceful,  though  some- 
times careless  :  their  style  was  energetic  and  condensed  ;  their  pictures  were  glowing 
and  faithful ;  the  characters  and  incidents  were  ftesh  and  startling ;  and  in  the  battle 
scenes  there  was  a  power  of  painting  which  rivalled  the  pages  of  Homer.  The 
whole  civilized  world  rose  up  to  greet  witli  admiration  the  poet  who  transported  them 
to  the  lakes  and  niountains  of  Scotland,  introduced  them  to  knights  and  moss- 
troopers, and  thrilled  them  with  scenes  of  wild  adventure  and  lawless  violence. 

In  1814  there  appeared,  without  any  preliminary  announcement,  and  anonymously, 
a  novel  called  "  Waverley."  which  soon  attracted  great  attention,  and  gave  rise  to  much 
speculation  as  to  Its  authorship.  This  was  the  beginning  of  that  splendid  series  of 
works  of  fiction,  commonly  called  the  Waverley  novels,  which  continued  to  be  poured 
forth  In  rapid  succession  till  1827.  From  the  first  there  was  ver>'  little  doubt  that 
Scott  was  Uie  author  of  these  works,  although  they  were  published  without  any  name ; 
and  when  the  avowal  was  made.  In  1827,  it  took  nobody  by  surimse.    Of  the  great 


140  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

powers  put  forth  in  these  novels,  of  their  immense  popularity,  and  of  the  inflnence 
they  have  exerted,  and  are  still  exerting,  upon  literature,  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak, 
nor  could  such  a  subject  be  discussed  in  a  notice  like  this. 

Besides  his  poems  and  novels,  Scott  wrote  a  Life  of  Napoleon,  various  other  biog- 
raphies, and  many  works  besides.  He  was  a  man  of  immense  literary  industry,  and 
his  writings  fill  eighty-eight  volumes  of  small  octavo  size.  All  this  did  not  pre- 
vent his  discbai^ng  faithfully  the  duties  of  a  citizen,  of  a  father  of  a  family,  and  (for 
many  years)  of  a  magistrate. 

Scott's  life  has  been  written  by  his  son-in-law,  Lockhart ;  and  it  is  a  truth  Ail  record 
of  what  he  was  and  what  he  did.  His  was  a  noble  nature,  with  nmch  to  love,  and 
much  to  admire.  He  was  a  warm  friend,  most  affectionate  in  his  domestic  relations, 
and  ever  ready  to  do  kind  acts  to  those  who  stood  in  need  of  them. 

The  following  extract  fh)m  "  If  amiion  "  describes  the  battle  of  Flodden  Field,  or 
Flodden,  in  which  the  English,  under  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  defeated,  with  great  slaughter, 
the  Scotch,  under  their  king,  James  IV.,  September  8,  1511  Flodden  Hill,  an  off- 
Hhoot  of  the  Cheviot  range,  is  in  the  county  of  Northumberland,  in  England,  a  few 
miles  from  the  town  of  Coldstream.  Marmion,  an  imaginary  personage,  is  an  English 
nobleman  of  bad  character.  Bloiiut  and  Fits  Eustace  are  his  sqtiires.  Lady  Clare  is  an 
English  heiress,  for  whose  hand  Marmion  had  been  an  unsnccessftil  suitor,  and  whose 
lover,  Wilton,  now  fighting  on  the  English  side,  he  had  attempted  to  ruin,  but  failed. 
Jeffi^y,  in  his  review  of  "  Manuion,"  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  says:  "Of  all  the 
poetical  battles  which  have  been  fought,  from  the  days  of  Homer  to  those  of  Mr. 
Southey.  there  is  none,  in  our  opinion,  at  all  comparable,  for  interest  and  animation, 
for  breadth  of  drawing  and  magnificence  of  effect,  with  this." 

BLOUNT  ♦•and  Fitz  Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view : 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  —  t 
But  see  !  look  up,  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill. 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 

*  Pronounced  Blfint  or  Bliint. 

+  That  is,  no  hope  of  being  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  knighthood,  of 
>?hich  gilded  spurs  were  the  badge. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN  FIELD,  141 

Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war. 

Ah  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  marshal  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone. 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone. 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown. 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come.  — 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes. 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close.  — 
They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway,  and  with  lance's  thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth. 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air ; 
O  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Eecoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout. 

And  triumph  and  despair ! 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 
At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave, 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 
^^  But  naught  distinct  they  see. 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain ; 

shook,  and  falchioua  flashed  amain ; 


142  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again. 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Ai-gyle ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountiiineer 
Itushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear. 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside. 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadswoT'l  T.lirwi 
*T  was  vain  :  —  But  Fortune,  on  tli 
With  fickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland's  light. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  wliit^, 

The  Howard's  lion  1. 11  : 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky. 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows ; 
Advanced,  —  forced  back,  —  now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  &iil, 

It  wavered  'mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear  : 
"  By  Heaven  and  all  its  saints  !  I  swear 

I  will  not  SCO  it  lost ! 
Fitz  Eustace,  you,  with  Lady  Clare, 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  j.rayt  r,  — 

I  jrallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fierv  '-  "^l^  ^vith  desperate  charge, 
Made,  1  •,  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  Lanuor  rose,  — 


THE  BATTLE   UF  FLuDDE.S   FIELD.  143 

But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sank  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too ;  —  yet  stayed, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly. 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  s})read. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 
A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast, 
To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 

Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 
Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels. 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops,  or  reels ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own. 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels  j  — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton  there  1 " 
They  fly,  or  maddened  by  despair. 
Fight  but  to  die.  —  "  Is  Wilton  there  ? " 


XIII.-THE   BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN   FIELD. 
(concluded.) 

WITH  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore. 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand  ; 
^^\^  .nn^  \v.  ,•.•  -Mw...„_»^i  ^vitli  blood  and  sand  : 


144  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

Dragged  firom  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone. 
Can  that  be  haughty  Mannion !  .  .  .  . 
When,  doflfed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air. 
Around  'gan  Mannion  wildly  stare  :  — 

"  Where 's  Harry  Blount  1     Fitz  Eustace  where  ? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
Redeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again ! 
Cry  —  *  Mannion  to  the  rescue !  *  —  vain  I 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  :  —  fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring  : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring.  — 
Fitz  Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie ; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field. 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  : 
Edmund  is  down  : —  my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
With  Chester  charge  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England  's  lost.  — 
Must  I  bid  twice  1  —  Hence,  varlets  !  fly  ! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die  ! " 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  : 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan. 
And  half  he  murmured,  "  Is  there  none 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst  1 " 
O,  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN  FIELD.  145 

iTncertaiii,  coy,  ami  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

IJy  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 

When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  f 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 
But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  tiie  mountain's  side. 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 
AVas  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  1  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark. 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half- worn  letters  say, 
Drink,  wearij.  pilgrim,  drink,  and.  pray. 
For.  the.  kind.  goul.  of.  Sybil.  Grey. 
Who.  built,  this,  cross,  and.  well. 
She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied. 
And  with  sur])rise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head  ; 
A  pious  man  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 
Deep  drank  Lonl  Marmion  of  the  wave. 
And,  as  she  stooj>ed  his  brows  to  lave,  — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
**  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ? " 

Thon.  n9  romMmbr"*-'  r  -f*,  — 


146  THE  SlXrif   HEADER. 

"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  M(.r«l>,  aro  iiiino  to  spare; 
Forgive  and  listen,  -•  nilt  (  huv  1 ''  — 

•*  Alas  ! "  she  said,  "  the  m  hilr,  — 
O,  tliiiik  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  lur  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She  — died  at  II -Iv  M, ." — 
Lord  Marmion  starii-d  Irum  tlie  ground, 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  : 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
"Then  it  was  truth,"  he  said  ;  *'  I  knew 
That  the  dark  jirrsau'''  nuist  be  true. 
I  would  the  tiemi,  tu  whom  belongs 
The  Vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day ! 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 
^Viul  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance. 
And  doubly  cursed  my  faiHng  braii'l ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  Minting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  I'V  the  treiiiMiiig  Monk. 

AVith  fruitless  labor  Clara  bound, 
And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound. 
The  ^Monk,  with  unavailing  cares. 
Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Fver.  be  said,  tliat,  elo>e  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 
For  that  slie  t  ver  sung, 


JltWHY  r.  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF  AGINCOUIiT.      147 

"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  dovra  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  the  dying!" 

So  the  notes  mug ;  — 
"  Avoid  thee,  Fiend  !  —  with  cruel  hand 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !^ 
O,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  ! 

O,  think  on  faith  and  bliss !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  1  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen. 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  foil, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale, 

And  —  Stanley  !  was  the  cry  :  — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head. 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted,  "  Victory  !  — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  ! " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


XIV.— HENRY   V.   BEFORE   THE   BATTLE    OF 
AGINCOURT. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

WibLtAM  Srakrbpbare  wm  boTO  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  England,  April  23, 
1504  ;  and  died  April  23, 1010.  Very  little  i«  known  of  the  events  of  bis  life,  and  of  hiu 
personal  character  and  Iiabits.  He  married  young,  went  to  London  soon  after  his 
marriage,  became  an  actor,  a  dramatic  author,  and  a  shareholder  in  one  of  the  Lon- 
don theatres ;  acquired  considerable  proiwrty,  ami  retired  to  his  native  place  a  few 
yean  before  hl.<i  death,  and  there  livwl  in  ease  and  honor.  He  was  the  author  of  thirty- 
flve  pUys  (rejecting  tho«e  of  doubtful  authenticity),  written  between  1500  and  1013, 
besides  poems  and  sonnets. 

Shakespeare  is  pronounced  by  Mr  Hallaro,who  was  a  most  conscientious  critic  and 
writer,  to  be  the  greatest  luune  in  all  literature.     It  would,  of  course,  be  im- 


148  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 


possible,  in  the  compass  of  a  notice  like  this,  to  do  anything  like  Justice  to  tlie  uni- 
versHlity  of  his  powers,  his  bouudless  fertility  of  invention,  his  dramatic  jttdi^nient. 
his  wit,  humor,  and  (Kithos,  his  sharp  ob8«'r\-ation.  and  his  profound  knowledge  uf  tlie 
human  heart  Nor  is  it  easy  to  point  out  to  the  young  reader,  within  a  reasonable 
compass,  the  best  sources  of  information  and  criticism  ;  fur  the  editions  of  iShakc- 
Bjieare  are  numberless,  and  the  books  that  liave  been  written  about  him  would  alone 
make  a  considerable  library.  The  following  works,  however,  may  l»e  read  and  con- 
sulted with  profit:  Drake's  "Shakespeare  and  his  Times,"  "  Uazlitt's  Lectures," 
Mrs.  James4in's  "  Characteristics  of  Womeu,"  Dr.  Johnson's  jire'ace,  Schlegel's  "  Lec- 
tures on  Dramatic  Literature,"  Coleridge's  "  Lectures  on  Shakespeare,"  the  notes  and 
introductory  notices  in  Knight's  pictorial  edition,  together  witJi  the  biography  pre- 
fixed, and,  esiteiially,  the  criticism  uiton  Sbake^teare  contained  in  HalUim's  Intro- 
ductlun  to  the  Literature  of  Euroite  in  the  fifteenth,  sixteenth,  and  seventeenth  cen- 
turies. 

Sliakespeure'*  life  and  writings  teach  two  lessons ;  which,  as  they  are  not  very  ob- 
vious to  the  apprehension  of  tlie  young,  and  as  they  have  a  somewhat  practical  bear- 
ing upon  life,  may  be  here  set  down.  He  b  an  instance  directly  opposed  to  the  By- 
ronic  notion,  tliat  great  genius  and  great  unhajipiness  invariably  go  together.  We 
have  every  reaiton  to  believe  that  his  temi>erament  was  cheerful  and  joyous,  and  tliat 
IS  (certainly  the  spirit  of  his  writings.  lie  is  often  tragic,  but  never  morbid.  In  tlie 
next  place,  Shakespeare  Li  a  proof  that  the  highest  poetical  genius  is  not  inconsistent 
with  practical  and  successful  business  habits.  Tliero  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was 
himself  an  excellent  man  of  business,  for  he  accumulated  an  ample  fortune  within  a 
few  years,  and  by  occu|>ations  in  which  punctuality,  economy,  and  method  are  par- 
ticularly important. 


KING.     Wliat  's  lie,  that  wishes  for  more  men  from  Eng- 
land 1 
My  cousin  Westmoreland  ?     No,  my  fair  cousin  ; 
I  f  we  are  marked  to  die,  we  are  enough 
To  do  our  country  loss  ;  and  if  to  live,    • 
The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of  honor. 
God*s  will !     I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 
It  yearns  me  not  if  men  my  garments  wear  ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires  : 
But,  if  it  be  a  .sin  to  covet  honor, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England : 
God's  peace !  I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honor 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me, 
Eor  the  best  hope  I  have.     0,  do  not  wish  one  more  ! 


HENRY  V.  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF  AQINCOURT.      149 

Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 

That  he  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  tight,  — 

Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 

And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse  ! 

We  M'ould  not  die  in  that  man's  company 

That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 

This  day  is  called  the  feast  of  Crispian  : 

He  that  outlives  this  day,  iuid  comes  safe  home, 

Will  stand  a-tiptoe  when  this  day  is  named. 

And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 

He  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age, 

Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  neighbors, 

And  say,  To-morroio  is  Saiut  Crispian  : 

Then  will  ho  strip  his  sleeve  and  show  his  scars, 

And  say,  These  to&unds  I  had  on  Crispian  s  day. 

Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot. 

But  he  '11  remember  with  advantages 

What  feats  he  did  that  day.     Then  shall  our  names. 

Familiar  in  his  mouth  as  household  words,  — 

Harry  the  king,  Bedford  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster,  — 

Be  in  their  flowing  cui)s  freshly  remembered. 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son  ; 

And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world. 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  rememlwrctl ; 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ! 

For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me 

Shall  be  my  brother  ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition  ; 

And  gentlemen  now  in  Enghind,  now  abed, 

Sliall  think  themselves  accursed  they  were  not  here. 

And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap  while  any  speaks 

That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispian's  day. 


150  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

XV.  ^  THREE  PICTURES   OF  BOSTON. 

EVERETT. 

EowAKD  EvE&BTT  wftB  boTO  in  DorchesteT,  Massachusetts,  A]iril  11,  1794;  was 
graduated  at  Hanrard  Colkge  in  1811 ;  and  was  settled  over  tlf  rhun  h  in  Brattle 
Street,  in  Boston,  as  successor  to  Mr.  Buckmiuster,  in  1813.    In  isiO  lu>  vv:l.s  hd- 
jiointed  pro  esitor  uf  Greelc  literature  in  Harvard  College,  and  immediately 
to  Euroi)c,  with  a  view  of  making  an  ample  preparation  for  the  duties  > 
position      He  remained  in  Enn^  about  four  and  a  half  years,  during  wii: 
lie  wi  lit  thruugh  an  extensive  ooorse  both  of  travel  and  study.     U)>on  lii> 
assumed  the  duties  of  his  pmfessorsliip,  and  also  those  of  editor  of  tli<       N   i.ii 
American  Review,"  and  continued  in  the  discharge  of  both  till  hid  cle<-ti  i,  t"  th. 
House  of  Repieaentatives.  in  1824.    He  remained  in  Congress  till  1835,  in  which  year 
be  was  chosen  governor  of  Massachusetts.    To  this  office  he  was  re-elected  for  three 
successive  ywrs.    In  1841  he  was  a^iointed  minister  plenipotentiary  to  the  Court  of 
8t  James,  and  he  discharged  the  duties  of  that  post  till  1845.    Upon  his  return  to 
America  he  was  chosen  President  of  Harvard  College,  and  held  that  offlce  till  1849. 
He  was  Secretary  of  State  for  a  short  period,  at  the  close  of  Mr.  Fillmore's  adminis- 
tration, and  in  1853  was  chosen  to  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  by  the  L^islature 
of  Massachusetts,  but  resigned  his  place  the  next  year,  on  account  of  ill-health,  and 
has  since  resided  as  a  private  citizen  in  Boston,  till  his  bunented  death,  January  15. 1865. 

The  variety  of  Mr.  Everett's  life  and  employments  is  but  a  tyf  <  r  tin  \  irsatility  of 
his  powers,  and  the  wide  range  of  his  cultivation.  He  was  one  ..i  th.  most  nnishe<I 
iiuii     '  His  works  consist  mainly  of  occasional  discounMs  aii<l  s|x<-<  Ik  s. 

aiii  >  1  lis  to  the  "North  American  Revieif  ,••  —  the  last  of  wlmli  m-  v.  ry 

inituerous.  ami  <Ual  with  a  great  diversity  of  ral^ects,  including  Greek  aitd  German 
literature,  ttie  tine  arts,  politics,  political  ecooomy,  history,  and  .\meriean  literature. 
His  orations  and  speeches  have  been  published  in  three  laige  octavo  volumes.  His 
style  is  rich  and  ^wing,  but  always  under  the  control  of  sound  Judgment  and  good 
taste.  His  learning  and  sdM^arship  are  never  needlessly  obtruded  :  they  are  woven 
into  the  web  of  his  discourse,  and  not  embossed  upon  its  surface.  He  wrote  under 
the  inspiration  of  a  generous  and  comprehensive  patriotism,  and  his  speeches  are 
t'liiiiKiitly  suitol  to  create  and  sustain  a  Just  and  high-toned  national  sentiment 
Wliat«-Mr  lit-  dill,  was  done  well ;  and  his  brilliant  natural  powers  were  through  life 
trained  and  aided  by  those  habits  of  vigorous  industry  which  are  fklsely  supposed 
by  many  to  be  found  only  in  comiection  with  dulness  and  mediocrity. 

TO  understand  the  character  of  tlie  commerce  of  our 
own  city,  we  must  not  look  merely  at  one  ]M)iiit. 
but  at  the  whole  circuit  of  country,  of  which  it  is  the 
business  centre.     We  must  not  contemplate  it  only  at 

this  ])n'si'nt  iiKniu'iit  of  tinir.  l-ut  we  must  bring  b#ore 
our  imaginations,  as  in  the  shitting  scenes  of  a  diorama, 
at  least  three  successive  historical  and  topographical  pic- 
tures ;  and  truly  iiisinuii\t 
them  delineated  on  can  \  as. 


THREE  PICTURES  OF  BOSTON.  151 

We  must  survey  the  first  of  them  in  the  company  of 
the  venerable  John  Winthrop,  the  founder  of  the  State. 
Let  us  go  up  with  him,  on  the  day  of  liis  landing,  the 
seventeenth  of  June,  sixteen  hundred  and  thirty,  to  the 
heights  of  yonder  peninsula,  as  yet  witliout  a  name. 
Landward  stretches  a  dismal  forest ;  seaward,  a  waste  of 
waters  unspotted  with  a  sail,  except  that  of  his  own  ship. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  you  see  the  cabins  of  Walford 
and  the  Spi-agues,  who  —  tlie  latter  a  year  before,  the 
former  still  earlier  —  had  adventured  to  this  spot  unten- 
anted else  by  any  child  of  civilization.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  river  lies  Mr.  Blackstone's  farm.  It  com- 
prises three  goodly  hills,  converted  by  a  spring-tide  into 
three  wood-crowned  islets ;  and  it  is  mainly  valued  for  a 
noble  spring  of  fresh  water  which  gushes  from  the  north- 
em  slope  of  one  of  the  hills,  and  which  furnished,  in  the 
course  of  the  summer,  the  motive  for  transferring  the  seat 
of  the  infant  settlement.     This  shall  be  the  first  picture. 

The  second  shall  be  contemplated  from  the  same  spot 
—  the  heights  of  Charlestown  —  on  the  same  day,  the 
eventful  seventeenth  of  June,  one  hundred  and  forty-five 
years  later ;  namely,  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and 
seventy-five.  A  terrific  scene  of  war  rages  on  the  top 
of  the  hill. 

Wait  for  a  favorable  moment,  when  the  volumes  of 
fiery  smoke  roll  away,  and,  over  the  masts  of  that  sixty- 
gun  ship,  whose  batteries  are  blazing  upon  the  hill,  you 
iHjhold  Mr.  Blackstone's  farm  changed  into  an  ill-built 
town  of  about  two  thousand  dwelling-houses,  mostly  of 
wood,  with  scarcely  any  public  buildings,  but  eight  or 
nine  churches,  the  Old  State  House,  and  Faneuil  Hall ; 
Roxbury  beyond,  an  insignificant  village  ;  a  vacant  marsli 
in  all  the  space  now  occupied  by  Cambridge  port  and  Kast 


152  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Cambridge,  by  Chelsea  and  East  Boston;  and  beneath 
your  feet  the  town  of  Charlestown,  consisting,  in  tlie 
morning,  of  a  line  of  about  three  hundred  houses, 
wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flames  at  noon,  and  reduced  at 
eventide  to  a  lieap  of  ashes. 

But  those  fii-es  are  kindled  at  the  altar  of  Liberty. 
American  independence  is  established.  American  com- 
merce smiles  on  the  spot ;  and  now,  from  the  top  of  one 
of  the  triple  hills  of  Mr.  Blackstone's  farm,  a  stately 
edifice  arises,  which  seems  to  invito  us  as  to  an  observa- 
tory. As  we  look  down  fi-om  this  lofty  structure,  we 
behold  the  third  picture,  —  a  crowded,  busy  scene. 

We  see  beneath  us  a  city  containing  eighty  or  ninety 
thousand  inhabitants,  and  mainly  built  of  brick  and 
granite.  Vessels  of  every  description  are  moored  at  the 
wharves.  Long  lines  of  commodious  and  even  stately 
houses  cover  a  space  which,  witliin  the  memoiy  of  man, 
was  in  a  state  of  nature.  Substantial  blocks  of  ware- 
houses and  stores  have  forced  their  way  to  the  channel. 

Faneuil  Hall  itself,  the  coasecrated  and  unchangeable, 
has  swelled  to  twice  its  original  dimensions.  Athenajum, 
hospitals,  asylums,  and  infirmaries  adorn  the  streets.  The 
schoolhouse  rears  its  modest  front  in  every  quarter  of  the 
city,  and  sixty  or  seventy  churches  attest  that  the  children 
are  content  to  walk  in  the  good  old  ways  of  their  fathers. 

Connected  with  the  city  by  eight  bridges,  avenues,  or 
ferries,  you  behold  a  range  of  towns,*  most  of  them 
municipally  distinct,  but  all  of  them  in  reality,  forming, 
with  Boston,  one  vast  metropolis  animated  by  one  com- 
mercial life.  Shading  off  from  these,  you  see  that  most 
lovely  background,  a   succession  of  happy  settlements, 

*  Since  this  was  written  the  towns  of  Dorchester,  Roxbury,  West  Rox- 
bury,  Brighton,  and  Charlestown  have  been  incorporated  with  Boston. 


TUllEE  riCTURES  OF  WSTON.  153 

spotted  with  villas,  farm-liouses,  and  cottages,  united  to 
Itoston  by  a  constant  intercourse,  sustaining  the  capital 
from  their  fields  and  gardens,  and  prosperous  in  the 
reflux  of  the  city's  wealth. 

Of  the  social  life  included  within  this  circuit,  and  of 
all  tliat  in  times  past  has  adorned  and  ennobled  it,  com- 
mercial industry  has  been  an  active  element,  and  has 
exalted  itself  by  its  intimate  association  with  everything 
else  we  hold  dear.  Within  tliis  circle  what  memorials 
strike  the  eye !  what  recollections,  what  institutions, 
what  patriotic  treasures  and  names,  that  cannot  die ! 

There  lie  the  canonized  precincts  of  Lexington  and 
Concord ;  there  rise  the  sacred  heights  of  Dorchester  and 
Charlestown  ;  there  is  Harvard,  the  ancient  and  venerable, 
foster-child  of  public  and  private  liberality  in  every  part 
of  the- State;  to  whose  existence  Charlestown  gave  the  first 
impulse,  to  whose  growth  and  usefulness  the  opulence  of 
Boston  has  at  all  times  ministered  with  open  hand. 

Still  farther  on  than  the  eye  can  reach,  four  lines  of 
communication  by  railroad  and  stejim  have,  within  our 
own  day,  united  with  the  capital,  by  bands  of  iron,  a  still 
broader  circuit  of  towns  and  villages.*  Hark  to  the  voice 
of  life  and  business  which  sounds  along  the  line. 

While  we  speak,  one  of  them  is  shooting  onward  to  the 
illimitable  West,  and  all  are  uniting  with  the  other  kin- 
dred enterprises  to  fonn  one  harmonious  and  prosperous 
whole,  in  which  town  and  country,  agriculture  and  man  • 
ufactures,  labor  and  capital,  art  and  nature,  wrought  and 
compacted  into  one  grand  system,  are  constantly  gather- 
ing and  diffusing,  concentrating  and  radiating,  the  eco- 
nomical, the  social,  the  moral  blessings  of  a  1  liberal  and 
diffusive  commerce. 

•  Eight  lint;8of  r;-' — '  •■ loct  Bo-.h..,  »ii.i  .ihor  parts  of  the  country. 


154  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

XVI.  — DEATH  AND  BUKIAL  OF  LITTLE  NELL 

DICKENS. 


Charles  DicxEifs  was  bora  in  Portsmoulh.  Kngland,  Febniary  7,  1812 :  and  died 
June  9, 1870.  Hl»  flret  work  —  a  series  of  sketches  under  the  name  of  "  Boz  "  —  was 
published  in  1836,  and,  though  it  showed  brilliant  descriptive  powers,  did  notattrart 
great  attention.  But  the  **  Rckwick  Papers,"  which  appeared  the  next  year,  fairly 
took  the  world  by  storm,  and  liftad  the  author  up  to  a  dizzy  height  of  i>upularity. 
equalled  by  notliing  since  Scott  and  Byron.  Uis  subcicquent  pro<luctions  were  re- 
eeived  with  ondimtnished  fkror,  and  the  interest  in  his  works  continued  unabated 
till  his  death.  In  the  btter  ymn  of  bis  life,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  extracts 
from  his  works  to  large  and  enthusiastic  audiences  in  England  and  America.  Ue 
twice  visited  this  country,  once  in  1842  and  again  in  1887. 

His  most  striking  characteristic  is  a  peculiar  and  original  vein  of  hnnK>r,  shown  in 
skcU-hes  taken  fhim  low  life,  and  expressing  itself  by  the  most  quaint,  grotesque,  and 
unex|»e«ted  combinations  of  ideas.  His  Sam  WcUer  —  a  character  he  never  surpassed 
—  is  the  type  of  his  creations  of  this  class,  and  is  truly  original  and  well  sustainetL 

Ue  is  hardly  less  successful  in  his  pathetic  passages  than  in  his  humomus  delinea- 
tions. He  excels  in  scenes  depicting  sickness  and  death,  especially  of  the  lovely 
and  the  young.  His  pages  have  been  Mistered  by  many  a  tear.  The  extract  in  the 
text  is  alone  enough  to  prove  his  great  power  over  the  symiiathies  of  the  heart 

He  had  also  oncommoa  skill  in  the  uiinnte  representation  of  scenes  of  still  life, 
which  he  painted  with  the  sharp  fidelity  of  a  Dutch  artist.  He  depicted  a  bar-rouui.  a 
kitchen,  a  court  of  Justice,  or  a  prison,  so  that  we  can  almost  see  theni.  He  some- 
times used  this  gift  in  a  way  that  violates  good  taste. 

The  tone  of  Dickens's  writings  is  sound  and  healthy ;  though  he  takes  na  a  little  too 
murh  into  scenes  of  low  life^^^lliMB^b  evil  and  hateful  cl^c|rters  upon  us 
more  tlian  we  QOuifls'VMff'^i^VSda  {Ktetical  inia^nati«^yHri|^^^Hklll  of  genial 
charity.  Ttie  generous  and  syinpathftic  tone  of  iJ||M^^^^^^^K»f  their  most 
powerful  attractions.  He  had  a  hatred  of  oDB^|^^^^^^^PiRn  all  forms,  and 
was  ever  ready  to  take  sides  with  the  victiU^^^^PH^Kr^ 

The  following  extract  is  firtim  "  Masterf^flnrnphrej-'s  Clock,"  a  novel  published 
in  1S41.  Little  Nell  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  purest  of  all  his  creations ;  and 
her  life  and  death  have  touched  many  tliousands  of  hearts.  She  is  represented  in  the 
novel  as  the  constant  attendant  of  her  grandfatlier,  an  affectionate  old  man,  but 
wanting  in  moral  energy.  She  glides  like  a  sunbeam  of  grace  and  innocence  through 
many  a  troubletl  scene  :  but  the  burden  of  life  is  too  heavy  for  her  delicate  spirit,  and 
she  thus  gently  lays  it  down.     -  ^ 

BY  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  di-awn  back 
towards  the  inner  chamber,  while  tliese  words  were 
spoken.  He  pointed  there,  as  he  replied,  with  trembling 
lips,  — 

"  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her. 
You  will  never  do  that,  —  never  while  I  have  life.     I 


DEATH  AND  BUJilAL  OF  LITTLE  NELL.       155 

liave  no  relative  or  friend  but  her, —  I  never  had,  —  I 
never  will  have.  She  is  all  yj  all  to  itie.  It  is  too  late 
t<i  ]>art  us  now." 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to 
her  as  he  went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were 
left  iKjhind  drew  close  together,  and  after  a  few  whispered 
^wmt(is,  —  not  unbroken  by  emotion,  or  easily  uttered,  — 
lollowed  him.  They  moved  so  gently  that  their  footsteps 
made  no  noise;  but  there  were  sobs  from  among  the 
group,  and  sounds  of  grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  wtis  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay 
at  rest.     The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free 
fi-om  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a 
creature  fresTr  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the 
l)reath  of  life ;  not  one  who  had  lived,  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter 
berries  and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  a  spot  she  had  been 
used  to  favor.  "When  I  die,  put  near  me  something  that 
has  loved  the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always." 
These  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was 
dead.  Her  little  bird  —  a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure 
of  a  finger  would  have  cnished  —  was  stirring  nimbly  in 
its  cage;  and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was 
mute  and  motionless  forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  oHier  early  cares,  her  sufferings, 
and  fatigues  ?  All  gone.  IiT§  was  the  true  death  l)efore 
their  weeping  eyes.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but 
peace  and  perfect  happiness  were  born;  imaged  iu  lier 
tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  iliis 
change.     Yes.    'The  old  fireside  had  smiled  on  that  same 


156  THE  SIXTH  i:i:.h>i:j:. 

sweet  face;  it  had  passed  likt-  a  divam  iliidiiLili  liaunis 
o(  iiiiseiT  and  care;  at  the  door  of  the  poor  scliodlmasler 
(»ii  lilt'  suininer  evening,  before  the  furnace  fire  upon  the 
cuid,  w  el  niLrht,  at  the  still  bedside  of  tlie  dyin«_r  boy.  tliere 
liad  been  ili«-  .-aiin-  miM.  l'i\rly  look.  So -li;ill  w,-  know 
(lie  an^t'ls  in  ilicir  majesty,  alicr  dcaili. 

Tlie  old  man  lidd  n!i..  l:m..ni,]  ■wm  in  his.  and  k»'])t  iIm- 
small  liand  li^lil  lulth  -i.  ttir  wai'mlli.      Il  was 

tlic  liami  shf  bad  sHriclicd  oui  lo  liini  willi  Iht  ]a>' 
-  llic  hand  llial  had  led  him  on  ihioii-h  all  their  \san- 
(kini'^s.  ]-l\t'rand  an<»n  he  j)ressc(l  ii  lo  his  lips  ;  then 
hnu^Li't'd  it  lo  Ids  breast  agaiii.  nnirmuiin^  tliai  it  was 
warmer  now ;  and  as  he  said  it,  he  looked,  in  agony,  to 
those  who  stoo(i  around,  as  if  im]>l<)rini:  them  to  help  her. 

Shi*  was  dead,  and  past  all  Inlp.oi  nf..!  (I  ii  The 
ancit  111  looms  she  had  seemed  to  lill  w  iih  liir.  even  while 
ht'i  own  was  ebbing  fast,  the  i:ai<l<i;  ^  ■•  had  tended, 
ihe    eyes   she    had   .^hidd.  n.  d.    ih^  hannts  of 

many  a  thon^hlfiil  lamr.  tlii*  ].atlis  >lh-  h;id  m.dden  as 
it  were  but  yesterday,  could  know    Ik  i   nf)  more. 

"  It  is  not,"  paid  the  schoolmasu  r,  as  lie  bent  down  to 
ki--  her  Mil  ihc  .•!i..'k.  and  l:;i\'-  lii-  l<  ars  five  vent,  —  "it 
is  nut  in  this  world  tliat  Heaven's  justice  ends.  Think 
what  earth  is  compared  with  the  world  to  which  her 
young  sjiirit  has  winged  il-<  early  lli^hl.  and  >ay.  il  (..ne 
deliberate  wish  expressed  in  >olt  nm  terms  ahove  this  bed 
could  call  her  back  to  life,  whi(  h  ot  ns  would  utter  it!" 

When  morning  came,  and  tliey  (ould  sj)eak  more  calmly 
on  the  subject  of  their  gi'ief,  they  heard  how  her  life  had 
closed. 

She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They  were  all  about  her 
at  the  time,  knowing  that  the  end  was  drawing  on.  She 
died  soon  after  dayhreak.     They  had  read  and  talked  to 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL   OF  LITTLE  NELL.       1 -T 

her  in  the  earlier  portion  of  tlie  night ;  but  as  the  hours 
ci*ept  on,  she  sank  to  sleep.  Tliey  could  tell,  by  what  she 
faintly  uttered  in  her  dreams,  that  they  were  of  her  jour- 
neyings  with  the  old  man;  they  were  of  no  painful  scenes, 
but  of  those  who  had  helped  and  used  them  kindly,  for 
she  often  said,  "  God  bless  you  ! "  with  great  fervor. 
Waking,  she  never  wandered  in  her  mind  but  once,  and 
that  was  of  beautiful  music  wliich  she  said  was  in  the  air 
It  may  have  been. 

Opening  her  eyes  at  last,  from  a  very  quiet  sleep,  she 
begged  that  they  would  kiss  her  once  again.  That  done, 
she  turned  to  the  old  man  with  a  lovely  smile  upon  her 
face,  —  such  as  they  said  they  had  never  seen,  and  never 
could  fon]jet,  —  and  clnnff  with  both  her  arms  about  his 
neck.     They  did  not  know  that  she  was  dead,  at  first. 

For  the  rest,  she  had  never  murmured  or  complained ; 
but  with  a  quiet  mind,  and  manner  quite  unaltered,  — 
save  that  she  every  day  became  more  earnest  and  moi-e 
grateful  to  them,  —  faded  like  the  light  upon  the  sum- 
mer's evening. 

And  now  the  bell  —  the  bell  she  had  so  often  heard 
by  niglit  and  day,  and  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure 
almost  as  a  living  voice  —  rang  its  remoi-seless  toll  for 
her  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good.  Decrepit  age,  and 
vigorous  life,  and  blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy 
poured  forth  —  on  crutches,  in  tlie  pride  of  strength  and 
healtli,  in  tlie  full  blush  of  promise,  in  the  mere  dawn  of 
life  —  to  gather  round  her  tomb.  Old  men  were  there, 
whose  eyes  were  dim  and  senses  failing, — grandmothers, 
who  might  have  died  ten  yeare  ago,  and  still  been  old,  — 
the  deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame,  the  palsied,  the  living  dead 
in  many  shapes  and  forms,  to  see  the  closing  of  that  early 
grave.  What  was  the  death  it  would  shut  in,  to  that 
which  still  couLl  <i  iwl  and  creep  above  it! 


158  THE  SIXTH  READER 

Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now,  pure  as  the 
newly  fallen  snow  that  covered  it,  whose  day  on  earth 
had  been  as  fleeting.  Under  the  porch,  where  she  had 
sat  when  Heaven  in  its  mercy  brought  her  to  that  peace- 
ful spot,  she  passed  again,  and  the  old  church  received 
her  in  its  quiet  shade. 

They  carried  her  to  one  old  nook,  where  she  had  many 
and  many  a  time  sat  musing,  and  laid  tlieir  burden  softly 
on  the  pavement  The  light  streamed  on  it  through  the 
colored  window,  —  a  window  where  the  boughs  of  trees 
were  ever  rustling  in  the  summer,  and  where  the  birds 
sang  sweetly  all  day  long.  With  every  breath  of  air  that 
stirred  among  those  branches  in  the  sunshine,  some  trem- 
bling, changing  light  would  fall  upon  her  grave. 

Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust.  Many  a 
young  hand  dropped  in  its  little  wreath,  many  a  stifled 
sob  was  heard.  Some  —  and  they  were  not  few  —  knelt 
down.     All  were  sincere  and  truthful  in  their  son*ow. 

The  service  done,  the  mourners  stood  apart,  and  the 
villagers  closed  round  to  look  into  the  grave  before  the 
pavement-stone  should  be  replaced.  One  called  to  mind 
how  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on  that  very  spot,  and  how 
her  book  had  fallen  on  her  lap,  and  she  was  gazing  with 
a  pensive  face  upon  the  sky.  Another  told  how  he  had 
wondered  much  that  one  so  delicate  as  she  should  be  so 
bold,  how  she  had  never  feared  to  enter  the  church  alone 
at  night,  but  had  loved  to  linger  there  when  all  was  quiet, 
and  even  to  climb  the  tower  stair,  with  no  more  light  than 
that  of  the  moon's  rays  stealing  through  the  loopholes  in 
the  thick,  old  wall. 

A  whisper  went  about  among  the  oldest  there,  that  she 
had  seen  and  talked  with  angels ;  and  when  they  called 
to  mind  how  she  had  looked,  and  spoken,  and  her  early 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  TOWER.  159 

death,  some  thought  it  might  be  so  indeed.  Thus  coming 
to  the  grave  in  little  knots,  and  glanciug  down,  and  giving 
place  to  others,  and  fidling  off  in  wiiisi)ering  groups  of 
tliree  or  four,  the  church  was  cleared,  in  time,  of  aU  but 
the  sexton  and  the  mourning  friends. 

They  saw  the  vault  covered  and  the  stone  fixed  down. 
Then,  when  the  dusk  of  evening  had  come  on,  and  not  a 
sound  disturbed  the  sacred  stillness  of  the  place,  —  when 
ihe  bright  moon  poured  in  her  light  on  tomb  and  monu- 
ment, on  pillar,  wall,  and  arch,  and  most  of  all  (it  seemed 
to  them)  upon  her  quiet  grave,  —  in  that  calm  time, 
when  all  outward  things  and  inward  thoughts  teem  with 
assurances  of  immortality,  and  worldly  hopes  and  fears 
are  humbled  in  the  dust  before  them,  —  then,  with  tran- 
quil and  submissive  hearts,  they  turned  away,  and  left 
the  child  with  God. 


XVII. —  THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  TOWER. 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 

CHARtES  Mackat,  an  English  writer,  was  born  In  Perth  In  1812.  He  has  been, 
during  much  of  his  life,  connected  with  the  newspaiier  press.  In  1858  he  visitetl  the 
United  States,  where  he  lecturwl  on  Poetrj'  and  Sung  Writing.  He  has  publislie<l 
several  works,  the  l)C8t  known  of  which  is  "The  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Populai 
Delusions,"  published  in  two  volumes  in  1851.  He  is  Itest  known  as  a  writer  of 
spirited  songs  and  lyrical  pieces  ;  some  of  which  have  attained  great  i>opularity.  In 
some  cases  they  bavo  been  set  tu  music  by  hiuiselt 

FIRST   VOICE. 

WHAT  dost  thou  see,  lone  watcher  on  the  tower  1 
Is  ihe  day  breaking]     Comes  the  wishcd-for  hourl 
Tell  u.s  ihe  signs,  and  stretoh  abroad  thy  hand 
If  the  bright  morning  dawns  upon  the  land. 


IGO  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

SECOND   VOICE. 

The  stars  are  clear  above  me,  scarcely  one 

Has  dimmed  its  rays  in  reverence  to  the  sun ; 

But  yet  I  see,  on  the  horizon's  verge. 

Some  fair,  faint  streaks,  as  if  the  light  would  suige. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

Look  forth  again,  0  watcher  on  the  tower ! 
The  people  wake  and  languish  for  the  hour ; 
Long  have  they  dwelt  in  darkness,  and  they  pine 
For  the  full  daylight  which  they  know  must  shine. 

8EC0N%  VOICE. 

I  see  not  well,  —  the  mom  is  cloudy  still,  — 
There  is  a  radiance  on  the  distant  hill ; 
Even  as  I  watch  the  glory  seems  to  grow ; 
But  the  stars  blink,  and  the  night  breezes  blow. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

And  is  that  all,  O  watcher  on  the  tower  1 
Look  forth  again  ;  it  must  be  near  the  hour. 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  snowy  mountain-copes, 
And  the  green  woods  beneath  them  on  the  slopes  1 

SECOND    VOICE. 

A  mist  envelops  them,  I  cannot  trace 
Their  outline  ;  but  the  day  comes  on  apace. 
The  clouds  roll  up  in  gold  and  amljer  flakes^ 
And  all  the  stars  grow  dim.     The  morning  breaks, 

FIRST   VOICE. 

"We  thank  thee,  lonely  watcher  on  the  tower ; 
But  look  again  ;  and  tell  us,  hour  by  hour,  - 
All  thou  beholdest,  —  many  of  us  die 
Ere  the  day  comes ;  0,  give  us  a  reply  ! 


THE   WATCHER  ON  THE  TOWER.  161 

SECOND    VOICE. 

I  see  the  hill-tops  now ;  and  Chanticleer 
Crows  his  prophetic  carol  in  mine  ear ; 
I  see  the  distant  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 
And  Ocean  gleaming  in  the  light  of  morn. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Again,  —  again,  —  O  watcher  on  the  tower ! 
We  thirst  for  daylight,  and  we  bide  the  hour. 
Patient,  but  longing.     Tell  us,  shall  it  bo 
A  bright,  culm,  glorious  daylight  for  the  free  1 

SECOND  IVOICE. 

I  hope,  but  cannot  telL  i  I  hear  a  song. 
Vivid  as  day  itself,  ^nd  clear  and  strong 
As  of  a  lark,  —  young  prophet  of  the  noon,  — 
Pouring  in  sunlight  his  seraphic  tune^ 

FIRST    VOICE. 

What  doth  he  say,  0  watcher  on  the  tower  1 
Is  he  a  prophet  ]    Doth  the  dawning  hour 
Inspire  his  music  ?     Is  his  chant  sublime. 
Filled  with  the  glories  of  the  future  time  1 

SECOND    VOICE. 

Ho  prophesies  ;  his  heart  is  full ;  his  lay 
Tells  of  the  brightness  of  a  peaceful  day,  — 
A  day  not  cloudless,  nor  devoid  of  storm. 
But  sunny  for  the  most,  and  clear  and  warm. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

We  ihaiik  tliet',  watcher  on  the  loiitily  tower, 
For  all  thou  tellest.  —  Sings  he  of  an  hour 
When  Error  shall  decay,  and  Truth  grow  strong, 
And  TJi'jlit  >^i;ill  rule  su)>ri'Uio  and  vaiKjuisli  AVi-ong] 


162  THE  SIXTH  READER 

SECX)ND   VOICE. 

He  sings  of  brotherhood  and  joy  and  peace, 
Of  days  when  hate  and  jealousies  shall  cease  ; 
When  war  shall  die,  and  man's  progressive  mind 
Soar  as  unfettered  as  its  God  designed. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Well  done !  thou  watcher  on  the  lonely  tower ! 
Is  the  day  breaking  ?  dawns  the  happy  hour  1 
We  pine  to  see  it ;  tell  us,  yet  again, 
If  the  broad  daylight  breaks  upon  the  plain  ? 

SECOND   VOICE.  ^ 

It  breaks,  —  it  comes,  —  the  misty  shadows  fly ;  - 
A  rosy  radiance  gleams  \\\x)ii  the  sky  ; 
The  mountain-tops  reflect  it  calm  and  clear ; 
The  plain  is  yet  in  shade,  but  day  is  near. 


XVIII.  — THE  PILGRIM   FATHERS. 

PIERPONT. 

John  PiERPONT  was  1»om  in  LiU'hfleld,  Connecticut.  April  6, 17S5  ;  and  dial  Angnst 
27,  1806.  He  was  criginally  a  lawyer,  but  afterwards  studied  theologj-,  and  in  1819 
was  ortlained  minister  of  the  HoUis  Street  Church  in  Boston,  where  he  remained  till 
1845.  He  was  afterwards  settle*!  over  congregations  in  Troy,  New  York,  and  Medford, 
Massachusetts.  He  was  an  active  laborer  in  behalf  of  ten)|»crancc,  antislavery,  the 
improvement  of  prison  discipline,  and  other  reforms  ;  aud  many  of  his  poems  have 
lieen  calle*!  forth  by  the  moral  and  religious  movements  of  the  day.  His  poetry  is 
characterized  by  cnerg>'  of  expression,  and  a  generous  tone  of  feeling.  The  following 
poem  was  written  for  the  celebration  of  the  anniversary  of  the  Pilgrim  Society  of 
Plymouth,  in  December,  1824 

THE  Pilgrim  Fatliers,  —  where  are  they  1 
The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in, the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray. 
As  they  break  along  the  shore  ; 


THE  PILOIUM  FATHERS.  163 

Still  roll  in  tho  bay,  as  they  rollQtl  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  tho  tide  ; 
And  tho  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  tho  deep. 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  tho  galo 

When  tiie  heavens  looked  dark  is  gone ;  — 
As  an'angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

tf  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

Tlie  Pilgrim  exile,  —  sainted  name !  — 
,  The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
^l^^^^joiced,  when  ho  came,  in  tho  morning's  flame, 
In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea. 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ;  — 
Lut  tho  Pilgrim,  — where  is  hoi 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  Summer  's  throned  on  high. 
And  tho  world's  warm  bf&tst  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

do,  stand  on  the  liill  where  they  lie. 
Tho  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  tho  world, 

Lodks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

Tilt'  i'li^nun  sjiirit  has  not  fled  : 
It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 


164  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Ami  it  Avatches  the  bed  of  the  gloiion  .  dcnl. 

AVith  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  bnivo  who  lia\  e  bled, 

And  sliall  guard  tliis  ice-bound  shoi-e, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay  where  the  Mayllowcr  lay 

Sliall  foam  aiid  freeze  uo  more. 


XIX.  — DIAI.OGUE  FROM   IVANHOE 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

The  following  xccne  Is  taken  from  "  Ivanhoe."  a  novel,  the  scene  M  which  is  laid 
in  Englaiul,  iu  the  twelfth  century.  Ivaiihoe,  an  Englbit  Knight,  is  lying  wounded 
and  a  captive  in  the  castle  of  Fmnt-de-IJn'uf,  n  Nonnaii  knight,  while  it  is  under- 
going an  assault  from  a  inrty  of  outlawed  forest  rangers,  aided  by  an  unknown  knight 
iu  black  armor,  hence  called  the  Clack  Kni;jht,  who  ailerwards  turns  out  to  be  Rich- 
ard, King  of  Euglond.    Rebecca  is  a  young  Jeirish  maiden. 

FOLLOWING  with  wonderful  promptitude  the  direc- 
tions of  Ivanhoe,  and  availing  liereelf  of  the  protec- 
tion of  the  large  ancient  shield,  which  she  placed  against 
the  lower  part  of  the  window,  Ilebecca,  with  tolerable 
security  to  herself,  could  witnes.3  j)art  of  what  was  jmssing 
without  the  castle,  and  i-eport  to  Ivanhoe  the  preparations 
wiiich  the  assailants  were  making  for  the  stomi. 

"  The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers,  al- 
tliough  only  a  few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow." 

"  Under  what  banner  ? "  asked  Ivanhoe. 

"  Under  no  ensign  of  war  which  I  can  observe,"  an- 
swered Rebecca. 

"  A  singular  novelty,"  muttered  the  knight,  "  to  ad- 
advance  to  storm  such  a  castle  without  pennon  or  banner 
displayed  !    Seest  thou  who  they  be  that  act  as  leaders  ? " 

"  A  knight  clad  in  sable  armor  is  the  most  conspicu- 
ous," said  the  Jewess  ;  "  he  alone  is  armed  from  head  to 


DIALOGUE  FROM  IVANHOE.  165 

licel,  and  seems  to  assume  the  direction  of  all  around 
him." 

"  What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield  ? "  replied 
Ivanlioe. 

"  Something  resembling  a  l)ar  of  iron,  and  a  padlock 
j)fiinted  blue  on  the  black  shield." 

A  fetterlock  and  shackle  bolt  azure,"  said  Ivanhoe; 
"  1  know  not  who  may  heox  the  device,  but  well  I  ween 
it  might  now  be  mine  own.  Canst  thou  not  see  the 
motto  ? " 

"  Scarce  the  device  itself,  at  this  distance,"  replied  Ke- 
l)ecca ;  "  biit  when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his  sliield,  it 
shows  as  I  tell  you." 

"  Seem  there  no  other  leaders  ?  "  exclaimed  the  anxious 
inquirer. 

"  None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I  can  behold  from 
this  station,"  said  Ilebecca;  "but,  doubtless,  the  other 
side  of  the  castle  is  also  assailed.  They  appear  even  now 
])reparing  to  advance." 

Her  description  was  here  suddenly  intennipted  by  the 
signal  for  assault,  which  wiis  given  by  the  blast  of  a  shrill 
1  ugle,  and  at  once  answered  by  a  flourish  of  the  Norman 
t;iim]iets  from  the  battlements. 

"  And  I  must  lie  here  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  ex- 
claimed Ivanhoe,  "  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom 
or  death  is  played  out  by  the  hand  of  others!  Look 
Irom  the  window  once  again,  kind  maiden,  but  beware 
that  you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  beneath  ;  look  out 
•lice  more,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the  storm." 

With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval 
which  she  had  employed  in  mental  devotion,  Eebecca 
again  took  i)ost  at  tlie  lattice,  sheltering  herself,  however, 
so  as  not  to  1)0  visible  from  beiieiith. 


ICO  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

"  What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca  ?  "  again  demanded  tlie 
wounded  knight. 

"  Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to 
dazzle  mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot 
them." 

"  That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe ;  "  if  they  press 
not  right  on  to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the 
archery  may  avail  but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bul- 
warks. Look  for  the  Knight  of  the  Fetterlock,  fair  Re- 
becca, and  see  how  he  bears  himself ;  for,  as  the  leader  is, 
so  will  his  followers  be." 

"  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Foul  craven  ! "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe ;  "  does  he  blench 
from  the  helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest  ? " 

"  He  blenches  not !  he  blenches  not !  "  said  Rebecca ; 
*'  I  see  him  now  ;  he  leads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the 
outer  bamer  of  the  barbican.  They  pull  down  the  piles 
and  palisades ;  they  hew  down  the  barriers  with  axes. 
His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over  the  throng,  like 
a  raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  They  have  made  a 
breach  in  the  barriei's,  —  they  inish  in,  —  they  are  thnist 
back!  —  Front-de-Bceuf*  heads  the  defenders;  I  see  his 
gigantic  form  above  the  preSs.  They  throng  again  to  the 
breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed  hand  to  hand,  and  man 
to  man.  It  is  the  meeting  of  two  fierce  tides,  —  the  con- 
flict of  two  oceans  moved  by  adverse  winds ! " 

She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable 
longer  to  endure  a  sight  so  terrible. 

*'  Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking 
the  cause  of  her  retiring;  "the  archery  must  in  some 
degree  have  ceased,  since  they  are  now  fighting  hand  to 
hand.     Look  again;  there  is  now  less  danger." 

*  Pronounced  Fron(g)-dii-Biif. 


DIALOGUE  FROM  IVANHOE.  1G7 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately 
exclaimed, — 

"  Front-de-Boeuf  and  the  Black  Knight  fight  hand  to 
hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their  followers,  who 
watch  the  progress  of  tlie  strife.  Heaven  strike  with  the 
cause  of  the  oppressed,  and  of  the  captive  ! " 

She  then  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  He  is  down  !  —  lie  is  down  !  " 

"  Who  is  down  ?  "  cried  Ivanhoe.  "  For  our  dear  lady's 
sake,  tell  me  which  has  fallen  ?  " 

"  The  Black  Kniglit,"  answered  liebecca,  faintly ;  tlien 
instantly  again  shouted,  with  joyful  eagerness,  "  But 
no,  —  but  no !  —  lie  is  on  foot  again,  and  fights  as  if  there 
were  twenty  men's  strength  in  his  single  arm,  —  his  sword 
is  broken,  —  he  snatches  an  axe  from  a  yeoman,  —  he 
presses  Front-de-Bceuf  with  blow  on  blow,  —  the  giant 
stoops  and  totters,  like  an  oak  under  the  steel  of  the 
woodman, —  he  falls,  —  he  falls  ! " 

"  Front-de-Bccuf  ?  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  Front-de-Bceuf !  "  answered  the  Jewess.  "  His  men 
rush  to  the  rescue,  headed  by  tlie  haughty  Templar,  — 
their  united  force  compels  the  champion  to  pause,  —  they 
dmg  Front-de-BfPuf  within  the  walls." 

"  Tlie  as.sailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not  ? " 
said  Ivanhoe. 

"  Tliey  have,  —  they  have  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  and 
they  press  the  besieged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some 
plant  ladders,  some  swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to 
ascend  upon  the  shoulders  of  one  another,  —  down  go 
stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their  heads,  and  as 
fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  men  to  the  rear,  fresh  men 
supply  their  place  in  the  assault.  Great  God  !  hast  thou 
given  men  thine  own  image,  that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly 
defaced  by  the  hands  of  their  brethren  ? " 


1C8  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

"  Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe ;  "  this  is  no  time 
for  such  thoughts.     Who  yield  ?  —  who  push  their  way  ? " 

"  The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shud- 
dering. "The  soldiers  lie  grovelling  under  them  like 
crushed  reptiles,  —  the  besieged  have  the  better!" 

"St.  George  strike  for  us!"  exclaimed  the  knight; 
"  do  the  false  yeomen  give  way  ? " 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  Rebecca ;  "  they  bear  themselves 
right  yeomanly,  —  the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  pos- 
tern with  his  huge  axe,  —  the  thundering  blows  which 
he  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all  the  din  and  shouts 
of  the  battle,  —  stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on  the 
bold  champion,  —  he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they 
were  thistledown  or  feathers!" 

"  By  Saint  John  of  Acre  ! "  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  him- 
self joyfully  on  his  couch ;  "  methought  there  was  but  one 
man  in  England  that  miglit  do  such  a  deed  ! " 

"  The  postern  gate  sliakes,"  continued  Rebecca ;  "  it 
crashes,  —  it  is  splintered  by  his  blows,  —  tliey  rush  in,  — 
the  outwork  is  won,  —  they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the 
battlements,  —  they  throw  them  into  the  moat !  O  men, 
—  if  ye  be  indeed  men,  —  spare  them  that  can  resist  no 
longer ! " 

"  The  bridge,  —  th^  bridge  which  comiiiuiiicates  with  the 
castle,  —  have  they  won  that  pass  ? "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  No,"  replied  Rebecca ;  "  the  Templar  has  destroyed 
the  plank  on  which  they  crossed,  —  few  of  the  defenders 
escaped  with  him  into  the  castle,  —  the  shrieks  and  cries 
which  you  hear,  tell  the  fate  of  the  otliers  1  Alas !  I  see 
it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory  than  upon 
battle  ! " 

"  "Wliat  do  they  now,  maiden  ?  "  said  Ivanhoe ;  "  look 
fortli  yet  again,  —  this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed." 


THE   VOYAGE.  169 

"  It  is  over  for  the  time,"  answered  Rebecca.  "  Our 
friends  strengthen  themselves  within  the  outwork  which 
they  liave  mastered,  and  it  affoixis  them  so  good  a  shelter 
IVrtiu  the  foeman's  shot,  tliat  the  garrison  only  bestows  a 
tew  bolts  on  it,  from  interval  to  interval,  as  if  rather  to 
disquiet  than  effectually  to  injure  them." 


XX.  — THE  VOYAGK 

mviNc. 

Washincton  Irvix<;,  the  most  popular  of  AinericAn  authors,  and  one  of  the  most 
j>opnl.ir  writ«i8  in  the  English  language  during  his  time,  was  bom  in  New  York, 
April  8,  1783  :  and  dietl  November  28,  1859.  His  numerous  works  are  too  well  known 
to  need  enumeration  ;  and  his  countrymen  are  so  familiar  with  the  graces  of  his  style 
and  the  charm  of  his  delightful  genius,  that  any  extended'  criticism  would  be  supcr- 
iliious.  His  writings  arc  remarkable  for  their  combination  of  rich  and  original  humor 
with  great  reAnement  of  feeling  and  delicacy  of  sentiment  His  humor  is  unstained 
l>y  coarseness,  and  his  sentiment  is  neither  mawkish  nor  morbid. '  His  s'ylc  is  care- 
fully nnisheil,  and  in  his  most  elalH>rate  pnxluctions  the  uniform  music  of  his  ca- 
dences approaches  nionotony.  He  is  an  accurate  observer,  and  his  descriptions  are 
correct,  animated,  and  beautifid.  In  his  biographical  and  historical  works  his  style 
is  flowing,  easy,  and  transiiarent.  His  personal  character  was  affectionate  and 
amiable,  and  these  traits  penetrate  his  writings,  and  constitute  no  small  portion  of 
their  chann.  Few  writers  have  ever  awakened  in  their  readers  a  stronger  personal 
interest  than  Irving :  and  the  sternest  critic  could  not  deal  harshly  with  an  author 
who  showed  himself  to  be  so  gentle  and  kindly  a  man. 

TO  an  American  visiting  Europe,  tlie  long  voyage  he 
has  to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  From  the 
moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is 
vacancy  until  you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are 
launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another 
world. 

I  have  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy.  I  should  cor- 
rect the  expression.  To  one  given  up  to  day-dreaming, 
and  fond  of  losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea-voyage  is 
full  of  subjects  for  meditation;  but  then  they  are  the 


170  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

wonders  of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to 
abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to 
loll  over  the  quarter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top  on 
a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil 
bosom  of  a  summer's  sea ;  or  to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of 
golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon,  fancy  them 
some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my 
own ;  or  to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling 
their  silver  volumes  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy 
shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security 
and  awe,  with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy 
height,  on  the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth 
gambols,  —  shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow 
of  the  ship ;  the  grampus,  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form 
above  tlie  surface ;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting  like  a 
spectre  through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would 
conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery 
world  beneath  me;  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its 
fathomless  valleys ;  of  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk 
among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth ;  and  of  those 
wild  phantasms  tliat  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and 
sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How 
interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world  hastening  to  rejoin 
the  great  mass  of  existence  !  What  a  glorious  monument 
of  human  invention,  that  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind 
and  wave ;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  commun- 
ion ;  lias  established  an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring 
into  the  sterile  regions  of  the  North  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
South  ;  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities 
of  cultivated  life  ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those 


THE   VOYAGE.  171 

scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which  na- 
i  lire  seemed  to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier ! 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at 
a  distance.  At  sea,  everytldng  that  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved 
to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  nmst  have  been  completely 
wrecked;  for  tliere  were  the  remains  of  handkercliiefs, 
l>y  which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to 
this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves. 
I'here  was  no  trace  by  whicli  the  name  of  the  ship  could 
l>t3  ascertained.  The  wreck  liad  evidently  drifted  about 
tor  many  months ;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about 
it,  and  long  sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where, 
thought  I,  are  the  crew  ?  Their  struggle  has  long  been 
over ;  they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the  tem- 
pest ;  their  bones  lie  whitening  in  the  caverns  of  the  deep. 
Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  liave  closed  over  them, 
and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end. 

What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship !  what 
prayers  ofll'ered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  !  How 
often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  and  tlie  mother  pored 
over  the  daily  news  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of 
tliis  rover  of  the  deep !  How  has  expectation  darkened 
into  anxiety,  anxiety  into  dread,  and  dread  into  despair! 
Alas!  not  one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to 
clierish.  All  that  shall  ever  be  known  is,  that  she  sailed 
from  her  port,  "  and  was  never  heard  of  more." 

The  sight  of  the  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many 
dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the 
evening,  when  the  weather,  which  had  liitherto  been  fair, 
bogan  to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications 
of  one  of  those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break 
in  upon  the  serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.     As  we  sat 


172  77/ A    SIXTH  READER. 

round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the 
gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck 
and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one 
related  by  the  captain. 

"As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "in  a  fine,  stout 
ship,  across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  the  heavy 
fogs,  that  prevail  in  those  parts,  rendered  it  impossible  for 
me  to  see  far  ahead,  even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  night 
the  weather  was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish 
any  object  at  twice  the  length  of  our  ship.  I  kept  lights 
at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look 
out  for  fishing-smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at 
anchor  on  the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking 
breeze,  and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the 
water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  *a  sail 
ahead ! '  but  it  was  scarcely  uttered  till  we  were  upon  her. 
She  was  a  small  schooner  at  anchor,  witli  her  broadside 
towards  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had  neglected 
to  hoist  a  light  We  struck  her  just  amidships.  The 
force,  the  size  and  weight  of  our  vessel,  bore  her  down 
below  the  waves  :  wf  ])assed  over  her,  and  were  hurried 
on  our  course. 

"  As  the  craslung  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I  had 
a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches  rushing 
from  her  cabin ;  they  had  just  started  from  their  beds  to 
be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their 
drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that 
bore  it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out  of  all  further  hearing.  I 
shall  never  foi-get  that  cry  !  It  was  some  time  before  we 
could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under  such  headway. 
We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess,  to  the  place 
where  the  smack  was  anchored.  We  cruised  about  for 
several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.     We  fired  several  guns. 


THE  FALL  OF  POLAND,  173 

and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survive 
ors ;  but  all  was  silent,  —  we  never  heard  nor  saw  any- 
thing of  them  more ! " 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
"land !"  was  given  from  the  mast-head.  I  question  whether 
Columbus,  when  he  discovered  the  New  World,  felt  a  more 
delicious  throng  of  sensations,  than  rush  into  an  Ameri- 
1  ii's  bosom  when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There 
1.^  a  volume  of  associations  in  the  very  name.  It  is  the 
land  of  promise,  teeming  with  everything  of  which  his 
childhood  has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have 
pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  period  of  arrival,  it  was 
all  feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled 
like  guardian  giants  around  the  coast ;  the  headlands  of 
Ireland,  stretching  out  into  tlie  channel ;  the  Welsh  moun- 
tains,  towering  into  the  clouds, — aU  wereobjects  of  intense 
interest.  As  we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the 
shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on 
neat  cottages,  with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass- 
plots.  I  saw  the  mouldering  ruins  of  an  abbey  overrun 
with  ivy,  and  the  taper  spire  of  a  village  church  rising 
from  the  brow  of  a  neighboring  hill ;  all  were  character- 
istic of  England. 


XXL  — THE  FALL  OF  POLAND. 

CAMPBELL. 

I  ME  following  extinct  is  from  the  "Pleasures  of  Hope."    Tlie  events  which  it 
nineiuorat4?8  took  place  in  1794.     Warsaw  was  captured  by  the  Russians  in  Novem- 
ber of  that  year.     K<MMM»8ko  did  not  literally  "  full."  that  Is,  die,  at  that  time.     He 
was  severely  wounded  antl  tj»ken  prisoner  In  a  battle  shortly  before  the  capture  of 
Warsaw,  but  h«  lived  till  I8I7.    "  Sanuatia  "  is  used  poetically  for  Poland,  being  the 


174  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

name  by  which  the  Romans  deitignated  that  i>ortion  of  Europe.  "  Prague  "  is  Praga, 
a  suburb  of  Warsaw,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Vistula,  and  joined  to  the  main  city 
by  a  bridge  of  boats. 

O  SACRED  Truth  !  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  Oppression  poured  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whiskered  pandoors  *  and  her  fierce  hussars. 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn. 
Pealed  her  loud  drum,  and  twanged  her  trumpet  horn  ; 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
PresagiJig  wrath  to  Poland  —  and  to  man ! 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  heights  surveyed. 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid. 
"  0  Heaven ! "  he  cried,  "  my  bleeding  country  save !  — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  1 
Yet,  thougli  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live,  —  with  her  to  die  !" 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form. 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge  or  death,  —  the  watchword  and  reply ; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm. 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm !  — 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew  :  — 
O,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 

*  "  Pandoor."  One  of  a  body  of  light  infantry  soldiers  in  the  service  of  Aus- 
tria; so  called  because  originally  raised  from  the  mountainous  districts,  near 
the  village  of  Pandur,  in  Lower  Hungary. 


THE  FALL  OF  POLAND.  176 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career  :  — 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell. 
And  freedom  shricketl,  —  as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there, 
Tumultuous  munler  shook  the  midnight  air,  — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  a  way, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 
Hark,  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 
Earth  shook,  —  red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry ! 

O  righteous  Heaven !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  5 
Where  was  thine  ann,  O  Vengeance  !  where  thy  rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God  ; 
That  crushed  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoketl  in  wratli,  and  thundered  from  afar  ] 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumbered  till  the  host 
Of  blooil-stained  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast, 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  1 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  ! 
Friends  of  the  world !  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van  ] 
Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  bkxKl  atone. 
And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  1 
O,  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
The  patriot  Tell,  —  the  Bruce  of  Biinnockbum ! 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth  or  Tully's  name! 


176  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Ye  thiit,  in  fancied  vision,  ran  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus  and  tlie  Theban  lyre  !  * 
I^pt  in  hu^toric  ardor,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt  and  well-remembered  shore, 
Where  valor  tuned,  amidst  her  chosen  throng. 
The  Thracian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song ; 
Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms ! 
See  Koman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore. 
Hath  Valor  left  the  world  —  to  live  no  more  ? 
No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 
And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 
Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls. 
Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  1 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 
Yes,  in  that  generous  cause,  forever  strong. 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song, 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay. 
^      Yes,  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may  trust. 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust. 
Ordained  to  fire  the  adoring  sons  of  earth, 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth ; 
Ordained  to  light  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  nature  as  they  play. 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow. 
And  rival  all  but  Shakespeare's  name  below. 

•  "The  TTieban  Ijtc*'    The  poetry  of  Pindar,  a  celebrated  lyric  poet, 
bora  iu  Tliebes. 


OPPOSITION  TO  INDEPENDENCE.  177 

XXIT— OPPOSITION  TO   INDEPENDENCK 

WEBSTER 

This  lesson  an<l  that  which  8uccee<lB  It  arc  both  taken  from  Mr.  Webster's  "  Eulogy 
on  AtUuns  and  Jefferson, "  dclivere<l  In  Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  August  2,  1826.  The 
first  speech  presents  such  arguments  as  might  have  been  urged  against  the  declaration 
of  the  independence  of  the  Colonies,  by  a  man  of  timid  and  desponding  temperament : 
and  the  views  of  l>olcler  and  far-seeing  statesmen  are  uttered  by  the  lips  of  Mr.  Ad- 
ams. Many  (lersons  have  supposed  that  the  s}iecch  put  into  the  mouth  uf  Mr.  Adams 
was  really  delivered  by  him,  but  this  is  not  the  case.     It  was  written  by  Mr.  Webster. 

LET  us  pause !  This  step,  once  taken,  cannot  be  re- 
traced. This  resolution,  once  pas.sed,  will  cut  off  all 
hope  of  reconciliation.  If  success  attend  the  arms  of 
England,  we  shall  then  be  no  longer  Colonies,  witli  char- 
ters and  with  privileges;  these  will  all  be  forfeited  by 
tliis  act ;  and  we  shall  be  in  the  condition  of  other  con- 
quered people,  at  the  mercy  of  the  conquerors. 

For  ourselves,  we  may  be  ready  to  run  the  hazard ;  but 
are  we  ready  to  carry  the  country  to  that  length  ?  Is 
SMI  (  r V-  n  probable  as  to  justify  it?  Where  is  the  mili- 
Uiry,  wliere  the  naval  power,  by  wliich  we  are  to  resist 
the  whole  strength  of  the  arm  of  England ;  for  she  wiU 

•  rt  that  strength  to  the  utmost  ?  Can  we  rely  on  the 
constancy  and  perseverance  of  the  people  ?  or  will  they 
not  act  as  the  people  of  other  countries  have  acted,  and, 

•aried  with  a  long  war,  submit,  in  the  end,  to  a  worse 
oppression  ?  While  we  stand  on  our  old  ground  and 
insist  on  redress  of  grievances,  we  know  we  are  right  and 

' '  not  answerable  for  consequences.  Nothing,  then,  can 
if  imputed  to  us. 

But  if  we  now  change  our  object,  carry  our  pretensions 
further,  and  set  up  for  absolute  independence,  we  shall 
lo.se  the  sympathy  of  mankind.  We  shall  no  longer  1^ 
defending  what  we  possess,  but  struggling  for  something 


178  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

which  we  never  did  possess,  and  which  we  have  solemnly 
and  uniformly  disclaimed  all  intention  of  pursuing,  from 
the  very  outset  of  the  troubles.  Abandoning  thus  our  old 
ground,  of  resistance  only  to  arbitrary  acts  of  oppression, 
the  nations  will  believe  the  whole  to  have  been  mere 
pretence,  and  they  will  look  on  us,  not  as  injured,  but  as 
ambitious,  subjects.  I  shudder  before  this  responsibility. 
It  will  be  on  us,  if,  relinquishing  the  ground  we  have 
stood  on  so  long,  and  stood  on  so  safely,  we  now  proclaim 
independence,  and  carry  on  the  war  for  that  object,  while 
these  cities  bum,  these  pleasant  fields  whiten  and  bleach 
with  the  bones  of  their  owners,  and  these  streams  run 
blood.  It  will  be  upon  us,  it  will  be  upon  us,  if,  failing 
to  maintain  this  unseasonable  and  ill-judged  declaration, 
a  sterner  despotism,  maintained  by  military  power,  shall 
be  established  over  our  posterity,  when  we  ourselves,  given 
up  by  an  exhausted,  a  harassed,  a  misled  people,  shall 
have  expiated  our  rashness  and  atoned  for  our  presump- 
tion on  the  sca£fold. 


XXIIL  — MR.   ADAMS'S  REPLY. 

SINK  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  jicrish,  I  give  my 
hand  and  my  heart  to  this  vote.  It  is  true,  indeed, 
-that  in  the  beginning  we  aimed  not  at  independence.  But 
there  's  a  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice 
of  England  has  driven  us  to  arms ;  and,  blinded  to  her 
own  interest  for  our  good,  she  has  obstinately  persisted, 
till  independence  is  now  within  our  grasp.  We  have  but 
to  reach  fortli  to  it,  and  it  is  ours.  Why,  then,  should 
we  defer  the  declaration  ? 


MR.  ADAMS'S  REPLY.  179 

Is  any  man  so  weak  as  now  to  hope  for  a  reconciliation 
with  England,  which  slmll  leave  either  safety  to  tlie 
country  and  its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  own  life  and  his 
own  honor  ?  Are  not  you,  sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair,  is 
not  be,  our  venerable  colle^ue  near  you,  are  you  not  both 
already  the  proscribed  and  predestined  objects  of  punisli- 
rnent  and  of  vengeance  ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal 
clemency,  what  are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the 
power  of  England  remains,  but  outlaws  ?  If  we  postpone 
independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry  on  or  to  give  up  the 
war  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to  the  measures  of  ParTia- 
ment,  Boston  Port  Bill  and  all  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit, 
and  consent  that  we  ourselves  shall  be  ground  to  powder, 
and  our  country  and  its  rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust  ? 

I  know  we  do  not  mean  to  submit.  We  never  shall 
submit  Do  we  intend  to  violate  that  most  solemn  obli- 
gation ever  entered  into  by  men,  that  plighting,  before 
God,  of  our  sacred  honor  to  Washington,  when,  putting 
him  forth  to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the 
political  hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to 
him,  in  every  extremity,  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives  ? 
I  know  there  is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see 
a  general  conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earth- 
quake sink  it,  than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith 
fall  to  the  ground.  For  myself,  having,  twelve  months 
ago,  in  this  place,  moved  you,  that  George  Washington  be 
appointed  commander  of  the  forces  raised,  or  to  be  raised, 
for  defence  of  American  liberty,  may  my  right  hand  for- 
get her  cunning,  and  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth,  if  I  hesitate  or  waver  in  the  support  T  give  him. 

Tlie  war,  then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it  through. 
And  if  the  war  must  go  on,  wliy  put  off  longer  the  decla- 
ration of  independence  ?     That  measure  will  strengthen 


180  THE  SIXTH  READER 

us.  It  will  give  us  character  abroad.  The  nations  will 
then  treat  with  us,  which  they  never  can  do  while  we 
acknowledge  ourselves  subjects  in  arms  against  our  sov- 
ereign. Nay,  I  maintain  that  England  herself  will  sooner 
treat  for  peace  with  us  on  the  footing  of  independence, 
than  consent,  by  repealing  her  acts,  to  acknowledge  that 
her  whole  conduct  toward  us  has  been  a  course  of  injus- 
tice and  oppression. 

Her  pride  will  be  less  wounded  by  submitting  to  that 
course  of  things  which  now  predestinates  our  indepen- 
dence, than  by  yielding  the  points  in  controversy  to  her 
rebellious  subjects.  The  former  she  w^ould  regard  as  the 
result  of  fortune ;  the  latter  she  would  feel  as  her  own 
deep  disgrace.  Why  then,  why  then,  sir,  do  we  not  as 
soon  as  possible  change  this  from  a  civil  to  a  national 
war  ?  And  since  we  must  fight  it  through,  why  not  put 
ourselves  in  a  state  to  enjoy  all  the  benefits  of  victory,  if 
we  gain  the  victory  ? 

If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall  not 
fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies;  the  cause  will  create 
navies.  The  people,  the  people,  if  we  are  true  to  them, 
will  caiTy  us,  and  will  carry  themselves,  gloriously,  through 
this  struggle.  I  care  not  how  fickle  other  people  have 
been  found.  I  know  the  people  of  these  Colonies,  and  I 
know  that  resistance  to  British  aggression  is  deep  and 
settled  in  their  hearts,  and  cannot  he  eradicated.  Every 
Colony,  indeed,  has  expressed  its  willingness  to  follow,  if 
we  but  take  the  lead. 

Sir,  the  declaration  will  inspire  the  people  with  in- 
creased courage.  Instead  of  a  long  and  bloody  w^ar  for 
the  restoration  of  privileges,  for  redress  of  grievances,  for 
chartered  immunities  held  under  a  British  king,  set  be- 
fore them  the  glorious  object  of  entire  independence,  and 


MK  ADAMS'S  REPLY,  181 

it  will  breathe  into  them  anew  the  breath  of  life.  Read 
this  declaration  at  the  head  of  the  army;  every  sword  will 
be  drawn  from  its  scabbard,  and  the  solemn  vow  uttered, 
to  maintain  it,  or  to  perish  on  the  bed  of  honor.  Publish 
it  from  the  pulpit ;  religion  will  approve  it,  and  the  love 
of  religious  liberty  will  cling  round  it,  resolved  to  stand 
with  it,  or  fall  with  it.  Send  it  to  the  public  halls ;  pro- 
claim it  there ;  let  them  hear  it  who  heard  the  first  roar 
-  'f  the  enemy's  cannon ;  let  them  see  it  who  saw  their 
brothers  and  their  sons  fall  on  the  field  of  Bunker  Hill, 
and  in  the  streets  of  Lexington  and  Concord,  and  the  very 
walls  will  cry  out  in  its  support. 

Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I  see, 
I  see  clearly  through  this  day's  business.  You  and  I, 
indeed,  may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time  when 
this  declaration  shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die ;  die 
colonists ;  die  slaves ;  die,  it  may  be,  ignominiously,  and 
on  the  scafTold.  Be  it  so.  Be  it  so.  If  it  be  the  pleasure 
of  Heaven  that  my  country  shall  require  the  poor  offering 
of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be  ready,  at  the  appointed 
liour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour  may.  But  while 
I  do  live,  let  me  have  a  country,  or  at  least  the  hope  of  a 
country,  and  that  a  free  coimtry. 

But  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured 
that  this  declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure, 
md  it  may  cost  blood;  but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will 
1  ichly  compensate  for  both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  of 
the  present,  I  see  the  brightness  of  the  future  as  the  sun 
in  heaven.  We  shall  make  this  a  glorious,  an  immortal 
(lay.  When  we  are  in  ourgmves,  our  children  will  honor 
it.  They  will  celebrate  it  with  thanksgiving,  with  festiv- 
ity, with  bonfires  and  illuminations.  On  its  annUal  re- 
turn, they  will  shed  teare,  copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of 


182  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

subjection  and  slavery,  not  of  agony  and  distress,  but  of 
exultation,  of  gratitude,  and  of  joy. 

•  Sir,  before  God,  I  believe  the  hour  is  come.  My  judg- 
ment approves  this  measure,  and  my  whole  heart  is  in  it. 
All  that  I  have,  and  all  that  I  am,  and  all  that  I  hope  in 
this  life,  I  am  now  ready  here  to  stake  upon  it ;  and  I 
leave  off  as  I  began,  that,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I 
am  for  the  declaration.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and 
by  the  blessing  of  God  it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment,  — 
independence  now,  and  independence  forever  ! 


XXIV.  — YOUTH 

THIS  is  our  morning ;  in  the  way  before  us 
Its  golden  light  is  falling  bright  and  fair  j 
No  clearer  sky  than  that  now  bending  o'er  ^s 
E'er  waked  a  longing  for  a  dwelling  there. 

We  start  together  :  yet  how  far  diverging 
Out  individual  paths  of  life  ^vill  be  ! 
Each  her  own  scheme  will  be  intently  urging, 
Each  working  out  her  separate  destiny. 

As  some  fair  landscape,  stretching  in  the  distance, 
We  look  at  life  through  eyes  unused  to  tears, 
And  yet  not  knowing  whether  our  existence 
Shall  cease  in  youth,  or  be  prolonged  through  years ; 

Whether,  ere  noontide,  everything  we  cherish 
Shall  fade  before  us  into  less  than  air, 
And  we,  disheartened,  lay  us  down  to  perish, 
The  Star  of  Hope  extinguished  in  despair. 


YOUTH.  183 

Or,  at  the  evening  hours,  our  sun,  descending 
With  gathering  glory  to  the  peaceful  west, 
Shall,  as  our  well-wrought  work  is  near  its  ending, 
]5ehold  us  waiting  for  the  promised  rest. 

Who  knows  the  future  ]    Who  has  turned  its  pages, 
Eeading  its  secrets  with  divining  power? 
We  may  look  backward  through  the  reach  of  ages ; 
We  can  look  forward  not  a  single  hour^ 

Yet  without  fear,  without  one  dark  misgiving. 
May  we  press  onward  with  alacrity. 
Hoping  and  trustful;  only  this  believing, — 
That  as  our  purpose  our  reward  shall  bo. 

Then  will  the  light  that  dwells  in  heavenly  places, 
Flooding  with  joy  a  world  beyond  our  gaze, 
Before  whose  brightness  angels  veiled  their  faces. 
Shine  with  swert  iiifluonoo  upon  all  our  ways. 

We  shall  exi)erience  peace  ;  and  when  life's  river 
Forgets  to  flow,  —  through  the  Omnipotent  will,  — 
When  on  its  banks  the  sunl>eams  cease  to  quiver 
And  deepening  shadows  settle  dark  and  stiU  ; 

Through  the  increasing  dimness  will  our  vision 
To  the  perception  of  true  life  arise  ; 
We  shidl  catch  glimpses  of  the  land  Elysian, 
We  shall  see  morning  break  in  Paradise. 


184  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

XXV.  — ETERNITY  OF  GOD. 

GREENWOOD. 

Francis  WrLUAM  Pm  GiixEinrooo  was  born  in  Boston.  Febnuuy  5.  1797,  was 
graduated  at  Harvard  College  In  1814,  and  settled  In  1818  as  i^uitor  over  the  New  South 
Church,  in  Boston.  But  he  was  soon  obliged  to  leave  this  post  of  duty,  on  account 
of  his  failing  health.  In  1824  he  was  settled  as  colleague  to  the  late  Dr.  Freeman, 
over  the  church  worshipping  in  King's  ChapeL  He  died  August  2, 1843.  He  was  a 
man  of  rare  purity  of  life,  who  preached  the  gospel  by  his  works  ss  well  aa  his  words. 
His  manner  in  the  pulpit  was  simple,  impressive,  and  winning ;  and  his  sermons  were 
deeply  imbued  with  true  religiouii  feeling.  His  style  was  beatitifully  transparent 
and  graceful,  revealing  a  poetical  imagination  under  the  control  of  a  pure  taste.  He 
waa  a  fluent  contributor  to  the  "  North  American  Review"  and  the  "Christian 
Examiner,"  and  for  a  time  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the  latter  periodical  A  volume 
entitled  "Sermons  of  Consolation  "  appeared  during  his  lifetime,  and  a  selection  from 
his  sermons,  with  an  introductory  memoir,  was  published  after  his  death. 

Dr.  Greenwood  was  an  attentive  student  of  natural  history,  and  was  an  accurate 
observer  of  nature,  with  remarkable  powers  of  description.  Some  of  his  lighter  pro- 
ductions, contrihutod  to  the  gift  annuals  of  the  day,  have  great  merit  as  vivid  and 
picturesque  delineations  of  natural  scenes  and  ot^ects.  The  following  extract  is  from 
one  of  his  sermons. 

^TT"E  receive  such  repeated  intimations  of  decay  in 
VV  the  world  through  which  we  ai*e  passing,  —  de- 
cline and  change  and  loss  follow  decline  and  change 
and  loss  in  such  rapid  succession,  —  that  we  can  almost 
catch  the  sound  of  universal  wasting,  and  hear  the  work 
of  desolation  going  on  busily  around  us.  "  The  mountain 
falling  Cometh  to  naught,  and  the  rock  is  removed  out  of 
his  place.  The  waters  wear  the  stones,  the  things  which 
gi'ow  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth  are  washed  away,  and 
the  hope  of  man  is  destroyed." 

Conscious  of  our  own  instability,  we  look  about  for 
something  to  rest  on ;  but  we  look  in  vain.  Tlie  heavens 
and  the  earth  had  a  beginning,  and  they  will  have  an  end. 
The  face  of  the  world  is  changing  daily  and  hourly.  All 
animated  things  grow  old  and  die.  The  rocks  crumble, 
the  trees  fall,  the  leaves  fade,  and  the  grass  withers. 
The  clouds  are  flying,  and  the  waters  are  flowing,  away 
from  us. 


ETERNITY  OF  GOD.  185 

The  firmest  works  of  man,  too,  are  gradually  giving 
way.  The  ivy  clings  to  the  mouldering  tower,  the  brier 
hangs  out  from  the  shattered  window,  and  the  wall-flower 
springs  from  the  disjointed  stones.  The  founders  of  these 
perisliable  works  have  shared  the  same  fate,  long  ago. 
If  we  look  back  to  the  days  of  our  ancestors,  to  the  men 
as  well  as  the  dwellings  of  former  times,  they  become 
immediately  associated  in  our  imaginations,  and  only 
make  the  feeling  of  instability  stronger  and  deeper  than 
before. 

In  the  spacious  domes  which  once  held  our  fathers,  the 
serpent  hisses  and  the  wild  bird  screams.  The  halls  which 
once  were  crowded  with  all  that  ta.ste  and  science  and 
labor  could  procure,  which  resounded  with  melody  and 
were  lighted  up  with  beauty,  are  buried  by  their  own 
ruins,  mocked  by  their  own  desolation.  The  voice  of  mer- 
riment and  of  wailing,  the  steps  of  the  busy  and  the  idle, 
liave  ceased  in  the  deserted  courts,  and  the  weeds  choke 
the  entrances,  and  the  long  grass  waves  upon  the  hearth- 
stone. The  works  of  art,  the  forming  hand,  the  tombs, 
the  very  ashes  they  contained,  are  all  gone. 

Wliile  we  thus  walk  among  the  ruins  of  the  past,  a  sad 
feeling  of  insecurity  comes  over  us ;  and  that  feeling  is  by 
no  means  diminished  when  we  arrive  at  home.  If  we 
turn  to  our  friends,  we  can  hardly  speak  to  them  before 
they  bid  us  farewell.  We  see  them  for  a'  few  moments, 
and  in  a  few  moments  more  their  countenances  are 
changed,  and  they  are  sent  away.  It  matlers  not  how 
near  and  dear  they  are.  The  ties  which  bind  us  together 
are  never  too  close  to  be  parted,  or  too  strong  to  be 
broken.  Tears  were  never  known  to  move  the  king  of 
terrors,  neither  is  it  enough  that  we  are  compelled  to  sur- 
render one,  or  two,  or  many,  of  those  we  love  ;  for  though 


186  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

the  price  is  so  great,  we  buy  no  favor  with  it,  and  our 
hold  on  those  who  remain  is  as  slight  as  ever.  The  shad- 
ows all  elude  our  grasp,  and  follow  one  another  down  the 
valley. 

We  gain  no  confidence,  then,  no  feeling  of  security,  by 
turning  to  our  contemporaries  and  kindi*ed.  We  know 
that  the  forms  which  are  breathing  around  us  are  as 
short-lived  and  fleeting  as  those  were  which  have  been 
dust  for  centuries.  The  sensation  of  vanity,  uncertainty, 
and  niin  is  equally  strong,  whether  we  muse  on  what  has 
long  been  pi-ostrate,  or  gaze  on  what  is  falling  now  or  will 
fall  so  soon. 

If  everything  which  comes  under  our  notice  has  en- 
dured for  so  short  a  time,  and  in  so  short  a  time  will  be 
no  more,  we  cannot  say  that  we  receive  the  least  assur- 
ance by  thinking  on  ourselves.  When  they,  on  whose 
fate  we  liave  been  meditating,  were  engaged  in  the  active 
scenes  of  life,  as  full  of  health  and  hope  as  we  are  now, 
what  were  wo  ?  We  had  no  knowledge,  no  conscious- 
ness, no  being ;  there  was  not  a  single  thing  in  the  wide 
universe  which  knew  us.  And  after  the  same  interval 
sliall  have  elapsed,  which  now  divides  their  days  from 
ours,  what  shall  we  be?    What  they  are  now. 

When  a  few  more  friends  have  left,  a  few  more  hopes 
deceived,  and  a  few  more  changes  mocked  us,  "  we  shall 
be  brought  to  the  gi-ave,  and  shall  remain  in  the  tomb : 
the  clods  of  the  valley  shall  be  sweet  unto  us,  and  every 
man  shall  follow  us.  as  there  are  innumerable  before  us." 
All  power  will  have  forsaken  the  strongest,  and  the  lofti- 
est will  be  laid  low,  and  every  eye  will  be  closed,  and 
every  voice  hushed,  and  every  heart  will  have  ceased  its 
beating.  And  when  we  have  gone  ourselves,  even  our 
memories  will  not  stay  behind  us  long.     A  few  of  the 


ETERNITY  OF  GOD.  187 

ne.ir  and  dear  will  bear  our  likeness  in  their  bosoms,  till 
they  too  have  arrived  at  the  end  of  their  journey,  and  en- 
tered tlie  dark  dwelling  of  unconsciousness. 

In  the  thoughts  of  others  we  shall  live  only  till  the  last 
sound  of  the  bell,  which  informs  them  of  our  departure, 
has  ceased  to  vibrate  in  their  ears.  A  stone,  perhaps,  may 
tell  some  wanderer  where  we  lie,  when  we  came  here,  and 
when  we  went  away ;  but  even  that  will  soon  refuse  to 
bear  us  record.  "  Time's  effacing  fingers  "  will  be  busy  on 
its  surface,  and  at  length  will  wear  it  smooth ;  and  then 
the  stone  itself  will  sink  or  crumble,  and  the  wanderer 
of  another  age  will  pass,  without  a  single  call  upon  his 
sympathy,  over  our  unheeded  graves. 

Is  there  nothing  to  counteract  the  sinking  of  the  heart 
which  must  be  the  efl'ect  of  observations  like  these  ?  Can 
no  support  be  offered  ?  Can  no  source  of  confidence  be 
named  ?  0  yes !  there  is  one  Being,  to  whom  we  can 
look  with  a  perfect  conviction  of  finding  that  security 
which  nothing  about  us  can  give,  and  which  nothing  about 
us  can  take  away. 

To  this  Being  we  can  lift  up  our  souls,  and  on  him  we 
may  rest  them,  exclaiming  in  the  language  of  the  monarch 
of  Israel,  "  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or 
ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from 
everlasting  to  everlasting,  thou  art  God  ! "  "  Of  old  hast 
thou  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  the  heavens 
are  the  work  of  thy  hands.  They  shall  perish,  but  thou 
shalt  endure ;  yea,  all  of  them  shall  wax  old  like  a  gar- 
ment ;  as  a  vesture  shalt  thou  change  them,  and  they  sliall 
be  changed ;  but  thou  art  the  same,  and  thy  years  shall 
have  no  end." 

Here,  then,  is  a  support  which  will  never  fail ;  here  is 
a  foundation  which  can  never  be  moved,  —  the  everlast- 


188  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

ing  Creator  of  countless  worlds,  "  the  high  and  lofty  One 
that  inhabiteth  eternity."  What  a  sublime  conception ! 
He  inJuxbits  eternity,  occupies  this  inconceivable  dui-ation, 
pervades  and  fills  throughout  this  boundless  dwelling. 

The  contemplation  of  this  glorious  attribute  of  God  is 
fitted  to  excite  in  our  minds  the  most  animating  and  con- 
soling reflections.  Standing  as  we  are  amid  the  ruins  of 
time  and  the  wrecks  of  mortality,  where  everything  about 
us  is  created  and  dependent,  proceeding  from  nothing,  and 
hastening  to  destruction,  we  rejoice  that  something  is  pre- 
sented to  our  view  which  has  stood  from  everlasting,  and 
will  remain  forever.  We  can  look  to  the  throne  of  God : 
change  and  decay  have  never  reached  that ;  the  revolu- 
tion of  ages  has  never  moved  it ;  the  waves  of  an  eternity 
have  been  rushing  past  it,  but  it  has  remained  unshaken ; 
the  waves  of  another  eternity  are  rushing  towards  it,  but 
it  is  fixed,  and  can  never  be  disturbed. 


XXVI.  — THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN. 

COLERIDGE. 

Saxttel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  In  Devonshire,  England, 
October  21, 1772  :  and  died  Jnly  25, 1S34.  He  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of 
his  time  ;  and  few  writers  have  exerted  a  wider  and  deej)er  intellectual  influence  than 
he.  His  influence,  too,  is  most  felt  by  minds  of  the  highest  class.  He  was  an  origi- 
nal and  imaginative  poet,  a  profound  and  suggestive  philosophical  writer,  and  a  critic 
of  unrivalled  excellence.  His  works  are  somewhat  fragmentary  in  their  character,  for 
he  wanted  patience  in  intellectual  construction  ;  but  they  are  the  fragments  of  a  noble 
ediflce.  In  conversational  eloquence  he  is  said  to  have  excelled  all  his  contempora- 
ries. 

Coleridge's  life  was  not  in  all  respects  what  the  admirers  of  his  genius  could  have 
wishe<l.  His  great  defect  was  a  want  of  will.  He  could  see  the  right,  but  not  always 
go  to  it ;  he  could  see  the  wrong,  but  not  always  go  from  it. 


H 


OW  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inlierits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains ! 


SLAi\t:jiy.  189 

It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  ho  merits, 
Or  any  merit  tliat  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  dear  friend  ;  renounce  this  canting  strain. 

What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man  obtain ) 

Place,  titles,  salary,  a  gilded  chain,  — 

Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  1 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends. 

The  good  great  man  ]  three  treasures,  —  love  and  light. 

And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infants*  breath  ; 

And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure  than  day  and  night,  — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 


XXVII.  — SLAVERY. 

cow  PER. 

William  Cowper  was  born  at  Bcrkhampstead,  in  Hertfonlshlre,  England,  Novem- 
ber 26.  1731  ;  and  died  April  25,  1800.  He  was  of  an  extremely  delicate  and  sensitive 
organiiation  ;  and  he  had  the  misfortune,  when  only  six  years  old.  to  lose  an  aflcrtion- 
ate  mother,  whom  be  has  commemorated  in  one  of  the  most  popular  and  l)eautif«l  of 
hin  ]iocms.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster  8cUck>I,  where  his  gentle  nature  suflered 
much  at  the  hands  of  older  and  rougher  lads.  He  spent  some  time  in  the  study  of  the 
law,  and  was  called  to  the  bar  ;  but  his  morbid  temperament  was  found  unequal  to 
the  discharge  of  professional  and  offlfial  duties.  He  dccline<l  the  strtigglcs  An<l  the 
prijws  of  an  active  career,  and  retired  into  the  countr}',  to  a  life  of  seclusion  ;  living 
for  many  years  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Unwin,  an  English  clergyman.  His  first  volume 
of  poems,  containing  "Table  Talk,"  "  Ho]>e,"  "The  Progress  of  Error,"  "Charity," 
etc.,  was  publisheil  in  1782,  when  he  was  fifty-one  years  old.  It  rarely  hapi^ns  that  a 
iKwt's  flrst  appearance  is  so  late  in  life.  This  volume  did  not  attract  much  attention. 
Bnt  in  1784  he  published  "The  Task,"  which  was  received  with  much  more  favor. 
It*  vigorous  and  manly  style,  its  eneOj'etic  moral  tone,  and  its  charming  pictures  of 
natural  scenery  and  domestic  life,  were  soon  appreciated,  although  the  general  t-isto 
at  that  time  preferred  a  more  artificial  style  of  iK>etry.  After  the  publication  of  *•  The 
Task,"  he  siwnt  some  yean  upon  a  translation  of  Homer  into  blank  verse,  published 
In  1791. 

U»aj  of  Cowper's  smaller  pieces  still  enjoy  great  and  deservc<l  i>npularity.  Like 
ra  of  habitual  mehincholy,  be  bad  a  vein  of  humor  running  Uiroueh  bia 


190  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

nature.  His  "John  Gilpin  "  is  a  well-known  instance  of  this  ;  and  the  s.iitio  (jiiality 
tlii'W^  a  fn.iutiit  rharin  over  his  correspondence.  Cowper's  life  is  full  of  deep  and 
5a<l  intinst.  His  mind  was  more  than  once  eclipsed  by  insanity,  and  often  darkened 
by  nieluii(lii>ly.  lie  had  tiiid'  r  and  Invin;,'  friiiids,  wlm  watched  over  him  with  affec- 
tionate and  imtiriii^;  iiif<r''>-t  IIi^  ihmsi  mtiiuat.-  riitmlships  were  with  women  ;  and 
there  is  a  strikiii;.'  c.^:  ■  .  ;i  tl.r  niasriilin,-  vigor  of  his  style  and  his  feminine 

habits  ami  iiianii.T  .■: 

11  is  letters  are  perlia]»s  mc  uesi  in  the  language.  They  are  not  superior,  as  intel- 
Idtiial  efforts,  to  those  of  Gray,  Walpole,  Byron,  or  Scott;  but  they  have  in  the 
higltebt  degree  that  conversational  ease  and  playfbl  grace  which  we  most  desiiv  in 
this  clas4  of  writings.  They  are  not  epbtolary  essays,  but  genuine  letters,  —  thr  nn 
studied  eflVisions  of  the  heart,  meant  for  no  eye  but  that  of  the  jterson  to  whimi  they 
are  addressed.  Cowper's  life  has  been  written,  and  his  poems  and  prose  writings 
edited,  by  Southey ;  and  they  form  a  work  of  great  interest  and  pernmueut  value  in 
literature. 

OFOR  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  coBtnjiiity  of  sliado, 
Where  mmof  •# oppression  ami  d.Mrii, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !     !My  oar  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  *\.  ly  day  >  r«  p  ,it 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  \vlii(  h  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flf.sli  in  man's  olid  urate  heart, 
It  does  not  !"»*  1  t  i  man  ;  th.   natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  tire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
N(it  colored  like  hi^  own  ;  and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  sucli  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  Id-  law  In  1  jn  y. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  wlm  had  else 
Like  kindit'd  drops  been  melted  into  one. 
Tims  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  human  nature's  liroadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  liini,  an<l  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripis  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart. 


PEARL  AT  PLAY.  191 

Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  l^east. 

Then  what  is  man  1    And  wliat  man,  seeing  this. 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  1 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground. 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 

No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 

Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave. 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

We  have  no  slaves  at  home,  —  then  why  abroad  ? 

And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 

That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 

They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 

That 's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 

And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then. 

And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 

Of  all  your  empire ;  that  where  Britain's  power 

Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 


XX VIIT— PEARL  AT  PLAY. 

HAWTHORNE. 

Nathakikl  Hawthornk,  an  American  novelist,  was  bom  in  Snlem.  July  4, 1804  ; 
and  died  May  19.  1864.  He  was  graduated  at  Bowdoin  Collie  in  1825.  He  is  th« 
author  of  "The  Scarlet  Letter,"  "The  Blithedale  R«iniance,"  "The  House  of  the 
S4'vi»n  OaWes,"  "  Our  Old  Home,"  —  a  coUwtion  of  sket^-hcs  of  the  scenery  and  man- 
ners of  EngUnd,  where  he  resided  for  some  years  as  United  State*  Consul  at  Liver- 
IHN.I.-  "The  Mari»le  Faun."  of  "TwiicTold  Tales,"  "Mosses  lh>m  an  Old  Manse." 
■  Tlie  Snow  ImaK*",  and  other  Twice-ToUl  Tales."  the  last  three  being  collectiona  of 
papvra  contributed  to  various  periodicals.     He  has  also  written  three  or  four  books 


192  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

for  children.  Since  hi*  death,  six  voluuies  hav«  been  published  containing  extracts 
from  his  Note-Books  in  America,  England,  and  Italy. 

Hawthorne  was  a  man  of  peculiarly  original  genius,  and  no  writer  of  our  time  was 
less  indebted  to  the  thoughU  and  words  of  other  men  than  he.  Reserved  in  his  tem- 
perament and  secluded  in  his  habits,  his  mind  grew  by  a  self-contained  law  of  in- 
crease. He  combined  a  rare  imaginative  faculty  with  a  vein  of  deep,  often  mournful, 
reflection.  He  had  an  unequal  power  of  moving  in  that  twilight  region  which  lies 
between  the  real  and  the  unreal,  and  of  so  clearing  up  his  mysteries  as  still  to  leave 
the  shadow  of  doubt  resting  uiton  them.  He  was  a  fine  and  sharp  observer,  and 
painted  character  with  admirable  discrimination  and  effect.  His  scenes  and  incidents 
are  mostly  drawn  from  tlie  history  and  life  of  New  England  ;  an«l  it  is  a  pr<x)f  of  no 
common  genius  in  him  to  have  found  the  elements  of  romantic  interest  in  a  soil  gen- 
eruUy  deemed  unpropiUous  to  such  growth.  His  popularity  is  great,  and  probably 
would  be  greater  were  it  not  fur  the  frequent  intrusion  into  his  pages  of  dark  and  sad 
visions,  which  fascinate  but  do  not  charm. 

Hawthorne's  style  is  of  rare  beauty  and  flnish  ;  he  writes  with  perfect  correctness ; 
hardly  any  living  writer,  English  or  American,  is  equal  to  him  in  this  respect,  and 
yet  witltout  any  stiffness  or  appearance  of  eUboration.  The  music  of  his  delicious 
cadences  never  palls  upon  the  ear,  because  it  is  alwasrs  natural  and  never  monotonous. 
He  haa  a  poet's  sense  of  beauty,  and  hb  descriptions  of  natural  soenes  have  all  the 
elements  of  poetry  except  the  garb  of  verse. 

The  following  extract  is  from  "The  Scarlet  Letter,"  one  of  his  moct  original  and 
powerful  productioiiH.  ami  of  tlt>ep  and  painful  interest. 


HESTER  I'llYNNE  went,  one  day,  to  the  mansion 
of  Governor  Bellinghara.  This  was  a  large  wooden 
house,  built  in  a  fashion  of  which  there  are  specimens 
still  extant  in  the  streets  of  our  elder  towns  ;  ^ow^  moss- 
grown,  crumbling  to  decay,  and  melancholy  at  heart,  with 
the  many  sorrowful  or  joyful  occurrences,  remembered  or 
forgotten,  that  have  happened  and  passed  away  within 
their  dusky  chambers.  Then,  however,  there  was  the 
freshness  of  the  passing  year  on  its  exterior,  and  tlie 
cheerfulness  gleaming  forth  from  the  sunny  windows 
of  a  human  habitation,  into  which  death  had  never 
entered. 

It  had,  indeed,  a  very  cheery  aspect ;  the  walls  being 
overspread  with  a  kind  of  stucco,  in  which  fragments  of 
broken  glass  were  plentifully  intermixed,  so  that,  when 
the  sunshine  fell  aslantwise  over  the  front  of  the  edifice, 
it  glittered  and  sparkled  as  if  diamonds  had  been  flung 


PEARL  AT  PLAY.  193 

against  it  by  the  double  haiidfuL  The  brilliancy  might 
have  befitted  Aladdin's  palace,  rather  than  tlif*  mansion 
of  a  grave  old  Puritan  ruler. 

Pearl,  looking  at  this  bright  wonder  of  a  house,  began 
to  caper  and  dance,  and  imperatively  required  that  the 
whole  breadth  of  sunshine  should  be  stripped  oft'  its  front 
and  given  her  to  play  with. 

"  No,  my  little  Pearl ! "  said  her  mother.  "  Thou 
must  gather  thine  own  sunshine.  I  have  none  to  give 
thee." 

They  approached  the  door,  when  they  beheld  the  old 
physician,  with  a  basket  on  one  arm,  and  a  staff"  in  the 
other  hand,  stooping  along  the  ground  in  quest  of  roots 
and  herbs  to  concoct  his  medicines  withal. 

Hester  bade  little  Pearl  run  down  to  the  margin  of  the 
water,  and  -play  with  the  slrells  and  tangled  sea-weed, 
until  she  should  have  talked  awhile  wdth  yonder  gatherer 
of  herbs. 

^So  the  child  flew  away  like  a  bird ;  and,  making  bare 
her  small  feet,  went  pattering  along  the  moist  margin  of 
the  sea.  Here  and  there  she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and 
peeped  curiously  into  a  pool,  left  by  the  retiring  tide 
as  a  mirror  for  Pearl  to  see  her  face  in.  Fortli  peeped 
at  her,  out  of  the  pool,  with  dark,  glistening  curls  around 
her  head,  and  an  elf  smile  in  her  eyes,  the  image  of  a 
little  maid,  whom  Pearl,  having  no  other  playmate, 
invited  to  take  her  hand  and  run  a  race  with  her. 

But  the  visionary  little  maid,  on  her  part,  beckoned 
likewise,  as  if  to  say,  "  This  is  a  better  place !  Come 
thou  into  the  pool !"  And  Pearl,  stepping  in,  beheld  her 
own  white  feet  at  the  bottom  ;  while,  out  of  a  still  lower 
depth,  came  the  gleam  of  a  kind  of  fragmentary  smile, 
floating  to  and  fro  on  the  agftetted  water.     Soon  finding, 


194 


THE  SIXTH  READER. 


however,  that  the  image  was  unreal,  she  turned  elsewhere 
for  better  pastime. 

She  made  little  boats  out  of  birch-bark,  and  freighted 
them  with  snail-shells,  and  sent  out  more  ventures  on  the 


PEARL    AT   I -LAV.  10." 

mighty  deep  than  any  merchant  in  New  England.  But 
the  lai-ger  part  of  tliem  foundered  neai*  the  shore.  She 
seized  a  horseshoe  by  tlie  tail,  and  made  a  prize  of  several 
five-fingers,  and  laid  out  a  jelly-fish  to  melt  in  the  warm 
8U1L  Then  she  took  up  the  white  foam,  that  streaked  the 
line  of  the  advancing  tide,  and  threw  it  upon  the  breeze, 
scampering  after  it  to  catch  the  great  snow-flakes  ere 
they  fell. 

Perceiving  a  flock  of  beach-birds  that  fed  and  fluttered 
along  the  shore,  the  naughty  child  picked  up  her  apron 
full  of  pebbles,  and,  creeping  from  rock  to  rock  after 
these  small  sea-fowl,  displayed  remarkable  dexterity  in 
pelting  them.  One  little  gray  bird  with  a  white  breast, 
Pearl  was  almost  sure,  had  been  hit  by  a  pebble  and 
fluttered  away  with  a  brokeh  wing. 

But  then  the  elf  child  sighed  and  gave  up  her  sport, 
because  it  grieved  her  to  have  done  harm  to  a  little  being 
that  W51S  as  wild  as  the  sea-breeze,  or  as  wild  as  Pearl 
herself. 

Her  final  employment  was  to  gather  sea- weed  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  and  make  herself  a  scarf  or  mantle,  and  a 
head-dress,  and  thus  assume  the  aspect  of  a  little 
mermaid. 

Just  then  she  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and,  flitting 
along  as  lightly  as  one  of  the  little  sea-birds,  appeared 
before  Hester,  dancing  and  laughing. 

The  road  liomeward,  after  the  two  wayfarers  had  crossed 
from  the  peninsula  tp  the  mainland,  was  no  other  than 
a  foot-path.  It  straggled  onward  into  the  mystery  of  the 
primeval  forest.  This  hemmed  it  in  narrowly,  and  stood 
black  and  dense  on  either  side,  and  disclosed  imperfect 
glimpses  of  the  sky  above.  The  day  was  chill  and  sombre. 
Overhead  was  a  gay  expanse  of  cloud,  slightly  stirred  by 


196  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

a  breeze ;  so  that  a  gleam  of  flickering  sunshine  might 
now  and  tlien  be  seen  at  its  solitary  play  along  the  path. 
This  flitting  cheerfulness  was  always  at  the  farther  extrem- 
ity of  some  long  vista  through  the  forest. 

"  Mother,"  said  little  Pearl,  "  the  sunshine  runs  away 
and  hides  itself,  because  it  is  afraid  of  something. .  Now, 
see !  There  it  is,  playing,  a  good  way  off.  Stand  you 
here,  and  let  me  run  and  catch  it.  I  am  but  a  child.  It 
will  not  flee  from  me." 

"  Kun  away,  child,"  answered  the  mother,  "  and  catch 
it !    It  will  soon  be  gone." 

Pearl  set  forth  at  a  great  pace,  and,  as  Hester  smiled 
to  perceive,  did  actually  catch  the  sunshine,  and  stood 
laughing  in  the  midst  of  it,  all  brightened  by  its  splendor, 
and  scintillating  with  the  vivacity  excited  by  rapid  mo- 
tion. The  light  lingered  about  the  lonely  child  as  if  glad 
of  such  a  playmate,  until  her  mother  had  drawn  almost 
nigh  enough  to  step  into  the  magic  circle,  too. 

"  Come,  my  chQd,"  said  Hester,  looking  about  her, 
"  we  will  sit  down  a  little  way  within  the  wood,  and  rest 
ourselves." 

They  entered  sufficiently  deep  into  the  wood  to  secure 
themselves  from  the  observation  of  any  casual  passenger 
along  the  forest  track.  Here  they  seated  themselves  in  a 
little  dell,  with  a  leaf-strewn  bank  rising  gently  on  either 
side,  and  a  brook  flowing  through  the  midst,  over  a  bed 
of  fallen  leaves.  Continually,  as  it  stole  onward,  the 
streamlet  kept  up  a  babble,  kin^  quiet,  soothing,  but 
melancholy. 

"  0  brook !  O  foolish  and  tiresome  little  brook  ! "  cried 
Pearl,  after  listening  awhile  to  its  talk.  "  Why  art  thou 
so  sad  ?  Pluck  up  a  spirit,  and  do  not  be  all  the  time 
sighing  and  murmuring." 


PEARL  AT  PLAY.  197 

Pmt  the  brook,  in  the  course  of  its  little  lifetime  among 
the  forest  trees,  had  gone  through  so  solemn  an  expe- 
rience that  it  could  not  help  ttilking  about  it,  and  seemed 
to  have  nothing  else  to  say.  Pearl  resembled  the  brook, 
inasmuch  as  the  current  of  her  life  had  flowed  through 
scenes  shadowed  as  heavily  with  gloom. 

But,  unlike  the  little  stream,  she  danced  and  sparkled, 
and  prattled  airily  along  her  course.  There  was  no  other 
attribute  that  so  much  impressed  her  mother  with  a  sense 
of  vigor  in  Pearl's  nature  as  her  never-failing  vivacity  of 
spirits.  It  was  a  doubtful  charm,  imparting  a  haM,  me- 
tallic lustre  to  tlie  cliild's  character.  She  wanted  —  what 
some  people  want  throughout  life  —  a  grief  that  should 
deeply  touch  her,  and  tlms  humanize  and  make  her  capa- 
ble of  sympathy.  But  there  was  time  enough  yet  for 
little  Pearl. 

"  What  does  this  sad  little  brook  say,  mother  ? "  in- 
quired she. 

"  If  thou  hadst  a  sorrow  of  thine  own,  the  brook  might 
tell  thee  of  it,"  answered  her  mother.  "  Now,  Pearl,  go 
and  play.  But  do  not  stray  far  into  the  wood.  And  take 
heed  that  thou  come  at  my  first  call." 

The  child  went  singing  away,  following  up  the  current 
of  the  brook,  and  striving  to  mingle  a  more  lightsome 
cadence  with  its  melancholy  voice.  But  the  little  stream 
would  not  be  comforted ;  and  so  Pearl  ch'^se  to  break  off 
all  acquaintance  with  it,  and  the  great  black  forest  became 
the  playmate  of  the  lonely  infant,  as  well  as  it  knew  how. 
It  ofiered  her  the  partridge-berries,  now  red  as  drops  of 
blood  upon  the  withered  leaves.  These  Pearl  gathered, 
and  was  pleased  with  their  wild  flavor.  The  small  deni- 
zens of  the  wilderness  hardly  took  pains  to  move  out  of 
her  patli. 


198  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

A  partridge,  indeed,  with  a  brood  of  ten  behind  iici 
ran  forward  thn.'ateningly,  but  soon  repented  her  fierce- 
ness, and  chicked  to  lier  young  ones  not  to  be  afraid.  A 
pigeon,  alone  on  a  low  branch,  allowed  Pearl  to  come 
beneath,  and  uttered  a  sound,  as  much  of  greeting  as 
alarm  A  squirrel,  from  the  lofty  deptlis  of  his  domestic 
tree,  chattered,  either  in  anger  or  merriment,  —  for  a 
squirrel  is  such  a  choleric  and  humorous  little  personage 
that  it  is  hard  to  distinguisli  between  his  moods,  —  and 
flung  down  a  nut  upon  her  head. 

A  fox,  startled  from  his  sleep  by  her  light  Ibotstep  on 
the  leaves,  looked  inquisitively  at  Pearl,  as  doubting 
whether  it  were  better  to  steal  off,  or  renew  his  nap  on 
the  same  spot.  The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  the  mother- 
forest,  and  these  wild  things  which  it  nourished,  all  recog- 
nized a  kindred  wildness  in  the  human  child. 

And  she  was  gentler  here  than  in  the  gi*assy  margined 
streets  of  the  settlement,  or  in  her  mother's  cottage.  The 
flowers  seemed  to  know  it ;  and  one  and  another  whis- 
pered, as  she  passed,  "  Adorn  thyself  with  me,  thou  beau- 
tiful child  ;  adorn  thyself  with  me !  "  and,  to  please  them. 
Pearl  gathered  the  violets,  and  anemones,  and  scarlet 
columbines,  and  some  twigs  of  the  freshest  green,  which 
the  old  trees  held  down  before  her  eyes.  With  these  she 
decorated  her  hair  and  waist,  and  became  a  nymph  child 
or  an  infant  dryad,  when  she  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and 
came  slowly  back. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.  100 

XXIX.  — CHAKGE  OF  THE  UGHT  BRIGADE. 

TENNYSON. 

Alfred  TRnrrsoN.  a  livin,;  yxwti  of  England,  waa  bora  at  Somenby,  Lincofaubire, 
in  1810.  He  has  published  two  volumes  of  miscellaneoos  poetry  ;  also  "  The  Princess." 
A  narrative,  in  blank  verse ;  a  volume  <-alled  "  In  Memoriam  " ;  *'  Maud,"  in  which  an 
unhappy  love-story  is  told  in  a  broken  and  frnginentary  way;  and  "Idyh  of  the 
King,"  comprising  four  poems  founded  on  the  legends  of  King  Arthur. 

He  is  a  man  of  rare  and  tine  genius,  whose  i>oetry  is  addressed  to  retlued  and  calti- 
vated  minds.  The  music  of  his  verse  and  his  skill  in  the  use  of  language  an  alike  ex- 
cellent He  is  a  poet  of  poets ;  and,  in  general,  is  only  ftilly  appreciated  by  thoM 
who  have  something  of  the  poetical  faculty  themselves.  He  is  more  valued  by  women 
than  by  men,  and  by  young  men  than  by  old.  He  is  evidently  a  man  of  the  finest 
organization,  and  his  poetry  is  of  the  most  exquisite  and  ethereal  cast  He  has  an  un- 
common |K)wer  of  presenting  pictures  to  the  eye,  and  often  in  a  very  few  words.  His 
pages  are  crowded  with  subjects  for  the  artist  A  portion  of  what  he  has  written  is 
rather  remote  ftt)ra  the  beaten  track  of  human  symiwithies  and  feelings ;  but  that  he 
can  write  popular  i)oetry  is  shown  by  his  well-known  "  May  Queen." 

His  volume  called  "  In  Memoriani"  is  a  very  remarkable  book.  It  is  a  collection 
of  one  hundre<l  and  twenty-nine  sh<»rt  poems,  written  in  a  ]>eculiar  and  uniform  metre, 
which  were  called  forth  by  the  early  death  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  the  eldest  son  of 
the  historian,  a  young  man  of  rare  excellence  of  mind  and  character,  the  intimate 
friend  of  Tennyson,  and  betrothed  to  his  sister.  Such  a  book  will  not  be  welcome  to 
all  minds,  nor  to  any  mind  at 'all  periods  and  in  all  moods  ;  but  it  contains  some  of  the 
most  exquisite  i>oetry  which  has  been  written  in  our  times,  and  some  of  the  deepest 
and  sweetest  efftisions  of  feeling  to  bo  found  anywhere. 

Tlie  following  spirited  poem  commemorates  a  gallant  and  de8i)erate  charge  made  by 
a  brigade  of  English  light-horse  at  the  battle  of  Balaklava,  in  the  Crimea,  October  25, 
1S54,  under  circumstances  that  seemed  to  insure  the  destruction  of  the  whole  body. 
The  order  to  charge  was  supposed  to  have  been  given  under  a  mistake ;  but  nothing 
was  ever  distinctly  known  about  it.,  as  Captain  NoLm,  who  delivered  it,  was  the  Itrst 
man  who  fell.  Of  six  hundre<l  and  thirty  who  started  on  the  charge  only  a  hundred 
and  fifty  returned. 

HALl"  .1  ku'^ue,  li;ill'a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  ! "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rotle  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  !  " 
AVa  '  *'" 1  mail  dismayed  I 


200  THE  >i.\Tii  i;i:aI)ER. 

Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 
Some  one  had  blundered  ; 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  ri-lit  ■  1"  them, 
CaTiimn  to  Iri'i  i,!'  them, 
OiniKUi  in  IVoiit  of  them. 

Volleyed  and  thundered  : 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 
Into  til.   jaws  of  death, 
liiU)  the  mouth  of  hell. 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Fla.slicd  all  tlieir  sal)re.s  bare. 
Flushed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
SaWriiii:  tli.-  u'unners  there, 
Cliarging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
riiiii-fil  ill  thr  liaitery  smoke, 
liiglit  tliron«;h  llie  line  they  broke  ; 
Cossack  nnd  Russian 
h't'tlt  .1  iiMin  the  sabre-stroke. 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not. 

Not  the  >i.\  Imiidred. 

Cannon  to  riglit  il  tlit  m, 
Cannon  tr.  Irft  of  thein, 
Cannon  beliind  ihciu, 
Volleyed  ami  thundered  : 


PERSONAL   Al'l'LAKAME   OF   H  Ai^HIXGTUX.    201 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well, 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  1 
0,  the  wild  charge  tliey  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  chai-ge  they  made  ! 
Honor  tlie  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  1 


XXX.  —  PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  AND   CHAR- 
ACTER  OF   WASHINGTON. 

REV.  JARED  SPARKS. 

Jarkd  Sparkr.  an  Aniericim  histnrian  and  author,  was  bom  in  Willington,  Con- 
necticut, May  10,  17S9;  aiid  died  Mfirrh  14,  186fl.  He  was  «rst  a  Unitarian  minister, 
and  was  settled  in  Baltimore  fh)m  1819  to  1823.  In  1821  he  was  Chaplain  to  the  Hoose 
of  Representatives.  He  e<lited  the  North  American  Review  from  1823  to  1830.  He  is 
best  known  by  his  valiinblo  rontrlbutions  to  American  history,  of  which  the  principal 
•re  "The  Life  and  Works  of  Washington,"  in  twelve  volumes,  and  "The  Life  and 
Works  of  Franklin."  in  ten  volumes.  He  also  wrote  "The  Life  of  John  Lcdyard." 
"The  Life  of  Oovemeur  Morris,"  in  three  volumes,  e<lite<l  "The  Diplomatic  Cor- 
respondence of  the  American  Revolution,"  Bcveral  numbers  of  the  "American  Al- 
manac," and  "The  Library  of  American  Biography,"  in  twenty-five  volumes.  He 
was  McLane  Professor  of  History  at  Harvard  College  fh)m  1830  to  1849,  and  I»re-si<lent 
of  this  College  fhira  1849  to  1852.  His  historical  writings  are  remarkable  for  their 
juclgment  and  gowl  sense,  for  accuracy  and  thoroaghness  of  research,  and  for  an 
onadomed  simplicity  and  correctness  of  style. 

THE  person  of  Washington  wa.s  commanding,  grace- 
ful, and  fitly  proportioned  ;  hh  stature  six  feet,  his 
ilui.st  broad  and  full,  lii>  llinl.s  long  and  somewhat  slen- 


202  .    TliK  .SIXTH  HEADER. 

der,  Init  n\<'11  shaped  and  ninscular.  TTis  fciitures  were 
regular  and  symmetrical,  his  eyes  ui  a  light  blue  color, 
and  his  whole  countenance,  in  its  quiet  state,  was  grave, 
placid,  and  benignant. 

AVheii  alone,  or  not  en^niLTCHl  in  eunversation.  ho  ap- 
p«'aic(l  st'dalf  and  llion^lit t'ul  :  hut,  when  his  nUcinion 
was  excited,  his  eye  kindlcil  (piickly  and  beanic(l  wiih 
animation  and  inteUigence.  (lie  was  not  fluent  in  speech, 
but  what  he  said  was  a])posit<\  and  listened  to  with  more 
interest  as  beini;    known  tn  ((tine   from  the  heart.     He 

pX^^  seldom  attempted  sallies  ot  wii  cr  Imiuor,  hut  no  man 
received  more  pleasure  from  an  exhibition  ui  them  ])y 
otbcis;  and.  aUlinu^li  (.ditented  in  seclusion,  he  .sought 
Ills  cliicr  liappiness  in  society,  and  jiai-iicij.atcd  wiili  de- 
liLdit  in  all  its  ratinnal  and  innocent  amusements. 
pW^itliout  austciiiy  on  the  one  hand,  or  an  appeamnce 
of  condescending  tamiliaiity  on  tlit-  otluT,  lie  was  aft  able, 
courteous,  and  rlicfitul  ;  l-ut  it  lia<  ot'lrn  Kern  remarked, 
that  llieie  was  a  dignity  m  his  person  and  manner,  not 
easy  to  be  defined,  which  impressed  everyone  who  >aw 
Ilim  for  ilir  first  lime  with  an  in-i inetive  deference  and 
awe.  This  mav  liaxc  arisen  in  ]tarl  trom  a  conviction  of 
lii>  superiority,  a-  well  as  troin  thu  effect  produced  by 
his  external  jitnn  and  dejiori  mciit. 

His  moral  ([ualities  wcie  in  iieilect  liarmonv  with  those 

*-'        of  his  intellect.     lAity  was  the   ruling"   i-iini-ijde  of  his 

conduct;  and  the  rare  endowmeni-  ol'  his  undL*rstanding 

^  were  not  more  constantly  tasked  to  devise  the  best  meth- 

ods of  efifecting  an  ohjtM't.  than  ihev  wore  to  cruard  the 
sanctity  of  conscieni c 

No  instaiiee  can  ho  addueotl.  in  wliieh  he  wa-  actuated 
by  a  sinister  motive,  or  endeavored  to  attain  an  end 
by  unworthy  means.     Truth,  integrity,  and  justice  were 


PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  WASHlSdTON.    203 

deeply  rooted  in  liis  mind ;  and  nothing  could  rouse  his 
indignation  so  ;oon,  or  so  utterly  destroy  his  conHdence, 
as  the  discovery  of  the  want  of  these  virtues  in  any  one 
whom  he  had  trusted.  Weaknesses,  follies,  indiscretions, 
he  could  forgive;  hut  subterfuge  and  dishonesty  he  never 
forgot  and  nirely  pardoned. 

He  was  candid  and  sincere,  true  to  his  friends,  and 
faithful  to  all,  neither  pmctising  dissimulation,  descending 
t4>  artifice,  nor  holding  out  expectations  which  he  did  not 
intend  should  be  realized.  His  pa*«ion8  were  strong,  and 
^owetimes  they  broke  out  with  vehemence,  bjit  lie.  liad 
the  power  of  checking  thgni  in  ajn  instant  Perhaps  self- 
control  was  the  most  remarkable  trait  of  his  character. 
It  was  in  part  the  effect  of  discipline ;  yet  he  seems  by 
nature  to  have  possessed  this  power  to  a  degree  which 
has  been  denied  to  other  mer^J 

A  Christian  in  faith  and  practice,  he  was  habitually 
devout.  His  reverence  for  religion  is  seen  in  his  exam- 
ple, his  public  communications,  and  his  private  writings. 
He  uniformly  ascribed  his  success  to  the  beneficent 
agency  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Charitable  and  humane, 
he  was  liberal  to  the  poor,  and  kind  to  those  in  distress. 
As  a  husband,  son,  and  brother,  he  was  tender  and  affec- 
tionate. Without  vanity,  ostentation,  or  pride,  he  never 
spoke  of  himself  or  his  actions,  unless  required  by  cir- 
cumstances which  concerned  the  public  interests. 

As  he  was  free  from  envy,  so  he  had  the  good  fortune 
to  escape  the  envy  of  others,  by  standing  on  an  elevation 
wliich  none  could  hope  to  attain.  If  he  had  one  pjission 
.stronger  than  another,  it  was  love  of  his  country.  The 
purity  and  ardor  of  his  patriotism  were  commensurate 
with  the  gi'catness  of  its  object  Love  of  country  in 
him  was  invested  witlj  tlie  saci*ed  obligation  of  a  dntv ; 


204  THE  SlXrn   READER. 

and  from  the  faithful  dibciiarge  of  tliis  duty  he  never 
swerved  for  a  moment,  either  in  thought  or  deed,  through 
the  whole  period  of  his  eventful  career. 


XXXI. —  WASHINGTON'S  GENIUS. 

B.  P.  WHIPPLE. 

Edwix  Pbrct  Whipple  wm  born  iu  Oloacester,  Massachusetts,  on  the  8th  of 
llareh,  1819.  He  has  been  for  many  years  a  resident  of  Boston.  He  is  well  known 
as  a  lyceum  le<turer  and  a  brilliant  cssajrist.  He  has  addressed  various  literary 
societies  in  a  style  of  much  l)eauty  and  itower.  His  imblished  works  are  remarkable 
for  vigor  of  treatment  and  copious, illustrations.  They  are  as  follows:  "Success 
and  its  Conditions,"  "Literature  and  Life,"  "Essays  and  Reviews,"  two  volumes, 
"  Character  and  Characteristic  Meu,"  "  The  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth."  In 
the  year  1850,  he  delivered  a  Fimrtb  of  July  oration  before  the  city  authorities  of 
Boston,  on  the  character  of  Washingtou. 

THE  history,  so  sad  and  so  glorious,  which  chronicles 
the  stern  struggle  in  which  our  rights  and  liberties 
passed  through  the  awful  baptism  of  fire  and  blood,  is 
eloquent  with  the  deeds  of  many  j>atriots,  warriors,  and 
statesmen ;  but  these  all  fall  into  relations  to  one  prom- 
inent and  commanding  figure,  towering  above  the  whole 
group  in  unapproachable  majesty,  whose  exalted  char- 
acter, warm  and  bright  with  every  public  and  private 
virtue,  and  vital  with  the  essential  spirit  of  wisdom,  has 
burst  all  sectional  and  national  bounds,  and  made  the 
name  of  Washington  the  property  of  all  mankind. 

ThiB  illustrious  man,  at  once  the  world's  admiration 
and  enigma,  we  are  taught  by  a  fine  instinct  to  venerate, 
and  by  a  wrong  opinion  to  misjudge.  The  might  of  his 
character  has  taken  strong  liold  upon  the  feelings  of  great 
masses  of  men,  but  in  translating  this  universal  sentiment 
into  an  intelligent  form,  the  intellectual  element  of  his 
wonderful  nature  is  as  much  depressed  as  the  moral  ele- 


WASHISQTON^S  GENIUS.  205 

ment  is  exalted,  and  consequently  we  are  apt  to  misun- 
dei*stiind  both.  Mediocrity  has  a  bad  trick  of  idealizing 
itself  in  eulogizing  him,  and  drags  him  down  to  its  own 
low  level  while  assuming  to  lift  him  to  the  skies. 

How  many  times  have  we  been  told  that  he  was  not 
a  man  of  genius,  but  a  person  of  "  excellent  common- 
sense,"  of  "  admirable  judgment,"  of  "  rare  virtues  " ;  and 
by  a  constant  repetition  of  this  odious  cant  we  have  nearly 
succeeded  in  divorcing  comprehension  from  his  sense,  in- 
sight fi-om  his  judgment,  force  from  his  virtues,  and  life 
from  tlie  man.  Accordingly,  in  tlie  panegyric  of  cold 
spirits,  Washington  disappears  in  a  cloud  of  common- 
places ;  in  the  rodomontade  of  boiling  patriots  he  expires 
in  the  agonies  of  rant. 

The  sooner  tliis  bundle  of  mediocre  talents  and  moral 
qualities,  which  its  contrivers  have  the  audacity  to  call 
Geor<Te  Washin^i^on,  is  liissed  out  of  existence,  the  better 
it  will  be  for  the  cause  of  talent  and  the  cause  of  morals : 
contempt  of  that  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

He  had  no  genius,  it  seems.  0  no !  genius,  we  must 
suppose,  is  the  peculiar  and  shining  attribute  of  some 
orator,  whose  tongue  can  spout  patriotic  speeches,  or 
some  versifier,  whose  muse  can  "Hail  Columbia,"  Init 
not  of  the  man  who  supported  states  on  his  arm,  and 
carried  America  in  his  brain.  The  madcap  Charles 
Townsend,*  the  motion  of  whose  pyrotechnic  mind  was 
like  the  whiz  of  a  luui<lred  rockets,  is  a  man  of  genius ; 
but  George  Washington,  raised  up  above'  the  level  of 
even  eminent  statesmen,  and  with  a  nature  moving  with 
the  still  and  orderly  celerity  of  a  planet  round  its  sun, 

•  CharlM  Townsend  entered  Parliament  in  1747.  He  held  various  high 
offices  during  liis  life.  He  supported  the  Stamp  Act  and  the  taxation  of  the 
American  Colonies.  He  had  preat  parlianu-ntary  uMlitics  ami  oratorjml 
powers. 


206  rUK   SIXTH    UKADEh'. 

—  he  dwindles,  in  comparison,  into  a  kind   of  angelic 
dunce  I 

What  is  genius  i  Is  it  worth  anything  ?  Is  splendid 
folly  the  measure  of  its  inspiration  ?  Is  wisdom  its  base 
and  summit, —  that  which  it  recedes  from,  or  tends  to- 
waitls  ?  And  by  what  definition  do  you  award  the  name 
to  the  creator  of  an  epic,  and  deny  it  to  the  creator  of  a 
country  ?  On  what  principle  is  it  to  be  lavished  on  liim 
wlio  sculptures  in  perishing  marble  the  image  of  possible 
excellence,  and  withheld  from  him  who  built  up  in  him- 
self a  transcendent  character,  indestructible  as  the  obli- 
gations of  Duty,  and  beautiful  as  her  rewards  ? 


XXXIL  — PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

LONGFELLOW. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteentli  of  April,  in  Seventy-Five  : 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famoiis  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  —  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night. 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry-arch  — 
Of  the  North  Church  tower,  as  a  signal-light,  — 
One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  tlie  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm    — . 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm. 
For  the  country-folk  to  b-j  up  and  to  arm." 


PAUL   RE VE HEPS  RIDE.  207 

Then  he  said  good  night,  and  with  mulHed  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore,  .-—     ' 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  : 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  tile  moon,  like  a  prison-bar, 

And  a  huge,  black  hulk,  that  wn^  iMnrTijiied 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tid- 

Meanwhile,  his  friend  through  alley  and  street 
Wanders  and  watches  witli  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack-door. 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  tlie  measuretl  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
T^p  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-c}iaml>er  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — «" 
Up  the  light  ladder,  slender  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,  --^ 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still,_ 
That  he  couUI  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  nloni:  fr  r    '   :  '  '     '.  ;.' 


208  rifK    >IXTII    UKAhEl:. 

And  seeming  to  whisixjr,  **  All  is  well !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  tlie  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  hia  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  awav 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 

A  line  of  black,  tliat  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats.   - 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  spurred,  -with  a  heavy  stride, 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Pm"1  P-^  -^'"^ 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  on  the  landscape  far  and  near. 
Then  impetuous  stamped  the  earth. 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely,  and  spectral,  and  sombre,  and  still. 

And  lo !  as  he  loolifi,  on  the  belfry's  height,— 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  bums  !      — 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village-street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 

And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  that  flies  fearless  and  fleet :  - 

That  was  all !    And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  i\\9  licrl 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 


J' A  LI.    i:i: 


J    /.  /./v  .>     {,IJ >/:. 


200 


It  w;i«  twelve  by  the  village-clock, 

VVlieii  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  ^rt'dfonl  town. 

lie  heiird  the  crowing  of  the  c< 

Aiul  tip    '     :'■■._  oftlu.  faniu'i'^    .      , 


210  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog, 
That  rises  >?hen  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village-clock, 

When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed. 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village-duck. 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. — 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock. 

And  the  twitter  of  binls  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning-breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  betl 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall. 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead. 

Pierced  by  a  Britisli  ninskf»t-)>fill. 

You  know  the  rest,     in  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  regidars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  fannyard-wall, 
Chasing  the  redcoats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 
And  only  pausing  to  tire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  ^liddlesex  village  and  farm,  — 


THE  rffARACTER  "I     J.AlTAX.  211 

A  cry  of  dctianro,  and  not  of  fear,  — 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last,  ^ 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  aid  need. 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beat  of  that  steed. 
And  the  midnight-message  of  Paul  Kcvere. 


XXXTTT  —  THE   CHARACTER   OF   GRATTAN. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

Sydney  Smith,  a  clergynuui  of  the  Church  of  England,  waa  born  at  Woodford,  In 
the  county  of  Esst'x,  England,  in  1771.  and  died  in  1845.     He  was  one  of  the  founders 

f  the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  a  periotlioal  journal  which  has  exerted,  nnd  is  continu- 
ing to  exert,  so  great  an  influence  over  the  literature  and  politics  of  Great  Britain  ; 
and  for  many  years  lie  was  a  consUint  contributor  t<i  it-s  pages.  Among  all  the  writers 
of  his  time,  he  is  remarkable  for  his  brilliant  wit  and  rich  vein  of  humor,  which  give 

I  fieculiar  antl  pungent  flavor  to  everything  that  falls  from  his  i>en.  But  his  wit  and 
iiunjor  resttHl  uinm  a  foundation  of  sound  common-sense,  and  were  alwaj-s  under  the 
control  of  a  warm  and  good  heart  In  reading  him,  we  feel  lirst  that  he  is  a  wist- 
man,  and  then  a  witty  man.  He  was  a  couni^pous  and  consistent  friend  of  civil  and 
rollgious  liberty  ;  and  In  the  various  articles  which  he  contributed  to  the  "  Edinburgh 
iifvlew,"  on  social  nnd  political  reform,  he  shows  the  enlarged  views  of  an  enlight- 

iied  statesman,  and  the  benevolent  feeling  of  a  Christian  philanthropist 

THANK  God  that  all  is  not  profligacy  and  corruption 
ill  tlie  history  of  that  devoted  people,  and  that 
ilie  name  of  Irishman  does  not  always  carry  with  it  the 
idea  of  the  oppressor  or  the  oppressed,  the  plunderer  or 
the  plundered,  the  tyrant  or  the  slave. 

Great  men  hallow  a  whole  peojde,  and  lift  up  all  who 
live  in  tluur  time.  What  Irishman  does  not  feel  proud 
that  he  has  lived  in  the  days  of  (irattan  ?  Who  has  not 
turned  to  him  for  comfort,  from  the  false  friends  and  open 
enemies  of  Ireland  ?     Wlio  did  not  rememl^r  liim  in  the 


212  77/ A  >/.\Tii  i:i:.\i'KiL 

days  of  its  burninfj^  and  wastings  and  iniird('r>  ''  No  gov- 
ernment ever  dismayed  him,  the  wurld  could  not  bribe 
liiui  ;  he  thouglit  niily  of  Irehind.  lived  for  no  other 
object,  dedicated  to  her  his  beautilul  fancy,  his  elegant 
wit,  his  manly  courage,  and  all  the  splendor  of  his  aston- 
ishing eloquence. 

He  was  so  born  and  -<»  uit'itMi,  tli;it  ]»<'etry,  forensic 
skill,  elegant  literaluio,  and  all  ilic  liiLihest  attain- 
ments of  human  genius,  were  wiihin  his  nach  ;  but  he 
thoni:lit  the  noblest  occupation  of  a  man  was  to  make 
other  men  happy  and  free ;  and  in  that  straight  line  he 
went  on  for  fifty  years,  without  one  sidelook,  without 
one  yieldini:  tln»u_Lilit,  wiilmut  one  niMiiN.-  in  hi^  heart 
which  he  might  not  have  laid  <»iH'n  to  the  view  ot  God 
and  man.  He  is  gone  !  —  but  there  is  not  a  sinde  day 
of  his  honest  life  of  wlii(  h  every  good  Iri-liniaii  wculd 
not  be  more  proud,  than  of  the  whole  political  existence 
of  his  countrymen,  —  the  annual  deserters  and  V)etrayers 
of  their  native  land. 


XXXTV  — IIMTK   AND    IM  IMTE. 

U.    C.    WIMUROP. 

Robert  Charles  Wimthbop  was  bom  in  Boston,  Majr  12, 1809,  and  gradaated  nt 
Han'ard  College  in  1S28.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1831,  but  never  engaged  in 
the  practice  of  the  profession.  In  1834  he  was  elected  to  the  House  of  Representatives 
of  Massachusetts,  and  rc-.l.M  tc<l  (hiring  five  successive  years,  during  the  last  three  of 
which  he  servetl  as  Sjioaki  r  In  the  autnmn  of  1840  he  was  chosen  to  the  House  of 
Representatives  in  Congress,  and  continued  a  member  of  that  body  during  the  next 
ten  years,  with  the  exception  of  a  brief  inter\'al.  From  December,  1847,  to  March, 
1849,  he  was  Speaker  of  the  House.  In  1856  he  served  a  sliort  time  in  the  Senate  of 
the  Uniteti  States,  by  appointment  of  the  govenior  of  Massachusetts.  During  his 
public  life  Mr.  Winthrop  was  a  leading  member  of  the  Whig  party.  He  spoke  fre- 
quently upon  the  great  questions  of  the  day,  and  his  speeches  always  commanded 
attention  from  their  well-considered  ar'jiimonts  anil  prnprietr'of  tone.  A  volume  of 
his  addresses  and  speeches  was  pull  li  time  he  has  published 

several  lectures  and  public  discourst.  ^ 


FINITE  AND  INFINITE.  213 

LET  men  lift  their  vast  reflectors  or  refractors  to  the 
skies,  and  detect  new  planets  in  their  hiding-places. 
l.<'t  them  waylay  the  fugitive  comets  in  their  flight,  and 

'mpel  them  to  disclose  the  precise  period  of  their  orbits, 
and  to  give  bonds  for  their  punctual  return.  Let  them 
drag  out  reluctant  satellites  from  "their  habitual  con- 
•  calments."  Let  them  resolve  the  unresolvable  nebulae 
of  Orion  or  Andromeda.  They  need  not  fear.  The 
sky  will  not  full,  nor  a  single  star  be  shaken  from  its 
sphere. 

Let  them  perfect  and  elaborate  their  marvellous  pro- 
cesses for  making  the  light  and  the  lightning  their  min- 

lers,  for  putting  "  a  pencil  of  rays  "  into  the  hand  of 
art,  and  providing  tongues  of  fire  for  the  communication 
of  intelligence.  Let  them  foretell  the  path  of  the  whirl- 
wind,  and  calculate  the  orbit  of  the  storm.  Let  them 
hang  out  their  gigantic  pendulums,  and  make  the  earth 
do  the  work  of  describing  and  measuring  her  own  mo- 
ti(ms.     Let  them  annihilate  human  pain,  and  literally 

charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  ether."  The 
1  >lessing  of  God  will  attend  all  their  toils,  and  the  grati- 
I  ude  of  man  will  await  all  their  triumphs. 

T.,et  them  dig  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  Let 
them  rive  asunder  the  massive  rocks,  and  unfold  the  his- 
tory of  creation  as  it  lies  written  on  the  pages  of  their 
piled-up  strata.  Let  them  gather  up  the  fossil  fragments 
of  a  lost  Fauna,  reproducing  the  ancient  forms  which 
inhabited  the  land  or  the  seas,  bringing  them  together, 
bone  to  his  bone,  till  Leviathan  and  Behemoth  stand 
before  us  in  bodily  presence  and  in  their  full  proportions, 
and  we  almost  tremble  lest  these  dry  bones  should  live 
again  !  Let  them  put  Nature  to  the  rack,  and  torture  her, 
in  all  her  forms,  to  the  betrayal  of  her  inmost  secrets  and 


214  THE  SIXTH  READER 

confidences.  They  need  not  forbear.  The  ioundatious  of 
the  round  world  have  been  laid  so  strong  that  they  can- 
not be  moved. 

But  let  them  not  think  by  searching  to  find  out  God. 
Jjet  them  not  dream  of  understanding  the  Almighty  to 
perfection.  Let  them  not  dare  to  apply  their  tests  and 
solvents,  their  modes  of  analysis  or  their  terms  of  defini- 
tion, to  the  secrets  of  the  spiritual  kingdom.  Let  them 
spare  the  foundations  of  faith.  Let  them  be  satisfied 
with  what  is  revealed  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Divine 
Nature.  Let  them  not  break  through  the  bounds  to  gaze 
after  the  Invisible,  lest  the  day  come  when  they  shall 
be  ready  to  cry  to  the  mountains,  Fall  on  us,  and  to  the 
hills,  Cover  us. 


XXXV.  — THE  NEW  YEAR. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

RING  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light ; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new ; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow ; 

The  year  is  going ;  let  him  go ; 
Ring  out  the  false  ;  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief,  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor ; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


THE  REFORM  THAT  IS  NEEDED.  215 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 

King  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Rin;,'  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right ; 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  j 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


XXXVL  — THE  REFORM  THAT  IS  NEEDED. 

BUSHNELL. 

HoRACB  BtraHKBLL,  D.  D.,  was  born  in  Washington,  Litchfield  County,  Ck)nn.,  in 
1804,  and  was  graduated  at  Tale  College  in  1827.  In  May,  1838,  he  was  invited  to  be 
pastor  of  the  North  Congregational  Church  in  Hnrtford,  which  i^sition  he  still  re- 
tains. Dr.  Bushnell's  writings  have  been  mainly  ou  theological  subjects,  though  in 
'  ■  - ' '"  •  before  literary  socieUes  he  has  occasionally  touched  upon  other  themes. 
I !  IIS  are  renuirkable  for  their  spiritual  beauty  and  elevation  of  style,  and 

.1'  '  thod  of  treatment.     lie  in  an  earnest  thinker  rather  than  a  Hutorician. 


216  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

IT  is  getting  to  be  a  great  hope  of  our  time,  that  society 
is  about  to  slide  into  something  better,  by  a  course 
of  natural  progress,  —  by  the  advance  of  education,  by 
great  public  reforms,  by  courses  of  self-culture,  and  phil- 
anthropic practice.  We  have  a  new  gospel  that  corre- 
sponds, —  a  gospel  which  preaches  not  so  much  a  faith  in 
God's  salvation  as  a  faith  in  human  nature,  —  an  atten- 
uated, moralizing  gospel,  that  proposes  development,  not 
regeneration  ;  that  shows  men  how  to  grow  better,  how 
to  cultivate  their  amiable  instincts,  how  to  be  rational 
in  their  own  light,  and  govern  themselves  by  their  ovm 
power. 

Sometimes  it  is  given  as  the  true  problem,  how  to 
reform  the  shape  and  reconstruct  the  style  of  their 
heads !  Alas,  that  we  are  taken,  or  can  be,  with  so  great 
folly !  How  plain  it  is  that  no  such  gospel  meets  our 
want !  What  can  it  do  for  us  but  turn  us  away,  more 
and  more  fatally,  from  that  gosjxjl  of  the  Son  of  God 
which  is  our  only  hope  ?  Man,  as  a  ruin,  going  after 
development  and  progress  and  philanthropy  and  social 
culture,  and  by  this  firefly  glimmer,  to  make  a  day  of 
glory ! 

And  this  is  the  doctrine  that  proposes  shortly  to  re- 
store society,  to  settle  the  passion,  regenerate  the  affec- 
tion, reglorify  the  thought,  fill  the  aspiration  of  a  desiring 
and  disjointed  world.  As  if  any  being  but  God  had  power 
to  grapple  with  these  human  disorders ;  as  if  man  or 
society,  crazed  and  maddened  by  the  demoniacal  frenzy  of 
sin,  w^ere  going  to  rebuild  the  state  of  order,  and  reconstruct 
the  harmony  of  nature  by  such  kind  of  desultory  counsel 
and  unsteady  application  as  it  can  manage  to  enforce  in 
its  own  cause  ;  going  to  do  this  miracle  by  its  science,  its 
compacts,  and  seK-executed  reforms  ! 


OBLIGATIONS  OF  AMERICA    Tu  KiNOLAiSD.      217 

As  soon  will  the  desolations  of  Karnac  gather  up  their 
fragments  and  reconstruct  the  proportions  out  of  which 
they  have  fallen.  No ;  it  is  not  progi-ess,  not  reforms, 
that  are  wanted  as  any  principal  thing.  Nothing  meets 
our  case,  but  to  come  unto  God  and  be  medicated  in 
him ;  to  be  bom  of  God,  and  so,  by  his  regenerative 
power,  to  be  set  in  heaven's  own  order.  He  alone  can 
rebuild  the  ruin,  he  alone  set  up  the  glorious  temple  of 
the  mind,  and  those  divine  affinities  in  us  that  raven* 
with  immortal  hunger ;  he  alone  can  satisfy  them  in  the 
bestowment  of  himself ! 


XXXVII.  —  OBLIGATIONS    OF    AMERICA    TO 
ENGLAND. 

EVERETT. 

The  following  extract  is  ttom  an  oration  delivered  at  Plymouth,  December  22, 
1824. 

'TTT'HAT  citizen  of  our  Republic  does  not  feel,  what 
VV  •  reflecting  American  does  not  acknowledge,  the 
incalculable  advantages  derived  to  this  land  out  of  the 
deep  fountains  of  civil,  intellectual,  and  moral  truth  from 
which  we  have  drawn  in  England  ?  What  American  does 
not  feel  proud  that  his  fathers  were  the  countrymen  of 
Bacon,  of  Newton,  and  of  Locke  ?  Who  does  not  know 
that,  while  every  pulse  of  civil  liberty  in  the  heart  of  the 
British  Empire  beat  warm  and  full  in  the  bosom  of  our 
ancestors,  the  sobriety,  the  firmness,  and  the  dignity  with 
which  the  cause  of  free  principles  struggled  into  existence 
here,  constantly  found  encouragement  and  countenance 
from  the  friends  of  liberty  there  ? 

*  Pronounce<l  rftv'vn.    To  consume,  or  waste  away. 


218  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Who  does  not  remember  that,  when  the  Pilgrims  went 
over  the  sea,  the  prayers  of  the  faithful  British  confessors, 
in  all  the  quarters  of  their  dispersion,  went  over  with 
them,  while  their  aching  eyes  were  strained  till  the  stars 
of  hope  should  go  up  in  the  western  skies  ?  And  who 
will  ever  forget  that,  in  that  eventful  struggle  which 
severed  these  youthful  republics  from  the  British  crown, 
there  was  not  heard,  throughout  our  continent  in  arms, 
a  voice  which  spoke  louder  for  the  rights  of  America 
than  that  of  Burke  or  of  Chatham  within  the  walls  of 
the  British  Parliament  and  at  the  foot  of  the  British 
throne  ? 

No ;  for  myself,  I  can  truly  say  that,  after  my  native 
land,  I  feel  a  tenderness  and  a  reverence  for  that  of  my 
fathers.  The  pride  I  take  in  my  own  country  makes  me 
respect  that  from  which  we  are  sprung.  In  touching  the 
soil  of  England,  I  seem  to  return,  like  a  descendant,  to 
the  old  family  seat;  to  come  back  to  the  abode  of  an 
aged  and  venerable  parent.  I  acknowledge  this  great 
consanguinity  of  nations.  The  sound  of  my  native  lan- 
guage, beyond  the  sea,  is  as  music  to  my  ear,  beyond  the 
richest  strains  of  Tuscan  softness  or  Castilian  majesty. 

1  am  not  yet  in  a  land  of  strangers,  while  surrounded 
by  the  manners,  the  habits,  and  the  institutions  \mder 
which  I  have  been  brought  up.  I  wander,  delighted, 
through  a  thousand  scenes  which  the  historians  and  the 
poets  have  made  familiar  to  us,  of  which  the  names  are 
interwoven  with  our  earliest  associations.  I  tread  with 
reverence  the  spots  where  I  can  retrace  the  footsteps  of 
our  suffering  fathers ;  —  the  pleasant  land  of  their  birth 
has  a  claim  on  my  heart.  It  seems  to  me  a  classic,  yea, 
a  holy  land,  —  rich  in  the  memory  of  the  great  and  good, 
the  champions  and  the  martyrs  of  liberty,  the  exiled  her- 


OBLIOATI(>X>    "F  AMEIUCA    T"   KXGLASV.     219 

aids  of  truth ;  and  richer,  as  the  parent  of  this  land  of 
promise  in  the  west. 

1  am  not  —  I  need  not  say  I  am  not  —  the  panelist 
of  England  I  am  not  dazzled  by  her  riches,  nor  awed 
by  her  power.  The  sceptre,  the  mitre,  and  the  coronet, 
—  stars,  garters,  and  blue  ribbons,  —  seem  to  me  poor 
things  for  great  men  to  contend  for.  Nor  is  my  admira- 
tion awakened  by  her  armies  mustered  for  the  battles  of 
Europe,  her  navies  overshadowing  the  ocean,  nor  her 
empire,  gi-aspiug  the  farthest  east.  It  is  these,  and  the 
price  of  guilt  and  blood  by  which  they  are  too  often  main- 
tained, which  are  the  cause  why  no  friend  of  liberty  can 
salute  her  with  undivided  afiections. 

But  it  is  the  cradle  and  the  refuge  of  free  principles, 
though  often  persecuted ;  the  school  of  religious  liberty, 
tlie  more  precious  for  the  struggles  through  which  it  has 
passed ;  the  tombs  of  those  who  have  reflected  honor  on 
all  who  speak  the  English  tongue  ;  it  is  the  birthplace  of 
our  fathers,  the  home  of  the  pilgrim  ;  —  it  is  these  which  I 
love  and  venerate  in  England.  I  should  feel  ashamed  of 
an  enthusiasm  for  Italy  and  Greece,  did  I  not  also  feel  it 
for  a  land  like  this.  In  an  American  it  would  seem  to  me 
degenerate  and  ungrateful  to  hang  with  passion  upon  the 
traces  of  Homer  and  Virgil,  and  follow  without  emotion 
the  nearer  and  plainer  footsteps  of  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton. I  should  think  him  cold  in  his  love  for  his  native 
land,  wlio  felt  no  melting  in  his  lieart  for  that  other  na- 
tive  country  which  holds  the  ashes  of  his  forefathei-s. 


220  THE  SIXTH  READER. 


XXXVIII.  — ADDRESS    TO   THE    MUMMY   IN 
BELZONI'S    EXHIBITION,    LONDON. 

HORACE  SMITH. 

Horace  Smith,  a  native  of  London,  died  in  July,  1849,  in  the  seventieth  year  of  his 
age.  In  1812,  in  conjunction  with  his  elder  brotlier,  James  Smith,  he  published  a 
volume  called  "  Rejected  Addresses,"  consisting  of  imitations  of  the  popular  j>oets  of 
the  day.  It  had  great  and  «it}8ened  success,  and  has  since  been  frequently  reprinted. 
Horace  Smith  was  a  stock-broker  by  profession ;  but  in  the  leisure  hours  stolen  from 
his  employment  he  wrote  a  number  of  works  of  fiction,  which  were  received  with  fa- 
vor, and  many  contributions,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  to  the  magazines  of  the  time. 
His  poems  have  been  collected  and  published  in  two  volumes.  H«  waa  a  very  amiable 
and  estimable  man. 

AND  thou  hiist  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story  ! ) 
In  Thebes's  *  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 
When  the  Memnonium  t  was  in  all  its  glory, 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 
Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak  !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy  ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue,  —  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou  'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground.  Mummy, 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon ; 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  vnih.  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  Hmbs,  and  features. 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  sphinx's  J  fame  1 

*  Thebes  was  a  celebrated  city  of  Upper  Egypt,  of  which  extensive  i-uins 
still  remain. 

f  The  Memnonium  was  a  building  combining  the  properties  of  a  palace  and 
a  temple,  the  ruins  of  which  are  remarkable  for  symmetry  of  architecture  and 
elegance  of  sculpture. 

X  The  great  sphinx,  at  the  pyramids,  is  liewn  out  of  a  rock,  in  the  form  of 
a  lion  with  a  luinian  head,  and  is  one  hundred  and  forty-three  feet  in  length, 
and  sixty -two  feet  in  height  in  front. 


ADDRESS  TO  A   MUMMY.  221 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenea  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ?  * 
Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  ?  t 
Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  1 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  toll  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade ; 

Then  say  what  secret  meloily  was  hidden 

In  Meninon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played. t 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest ;  if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain ;  Egyptian  priest  ne'er  owned  his  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned"Tiat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharoah,  glass  to  glass  : 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled ; 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed. 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  sucked  :  — 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primevel  race  was  run. 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations ; 

•  The  pyramids  are  well-known  structures  near  Cairo.  According  tc 
Herodotus,  the  great  pyramid,  so  called,  was  built  by  Clieops  (pronounced 
Ke'ops).  He  was  succeeded  by  his  brother  Cephren  or  Ceplirenes  (])ro- 
nounced  Sef  re-nes),  who,  according  to  the  same  historian,  built  another  of 
the  pyramids. 

+  Pompey's  Pillar  is  a  column  almost  a  hundred  feet  high,  near  Alexandria. 
It  L««  now  generally  admitte«l  by  the  learned  to  have  had  no  connection  with 
the  Roman  general  whose  name  it  bears. 

X  Tliis  was  a  statue  at  Thebes,  said  to  utter  at  sunrise  a  sound  like  the 
twanging  of  a  harp-string  or  of  a  metallic  wire. 


222  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  Roman  Empire  has  begim  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen,  —  we  have  lost  old  nations, 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread,* 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Onis,  Apis,  Isis,t 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  .  — 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast. 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled  :  — 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  1 
What  were  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  1 

Statue  of  flesh,  —  immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  1 
O,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever. 
Although  corruption  may  our  fmme  consume. 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom  ! 

*  E^ypt  was  conquered  525  b.  c.  by  Camby'ses,  the  second  king  of  Persia. 
+  These  are  the  names  of  Egyptian  deities. 


anr>  rx  x.irrnE.  223 

XXXTX  —  GOD   IN   NATURE. 

CHAPIN. 

Edwik  Hcbbell  Crapiv.  D.  D.,  wm  bom  in  Union  Village,  Washington  Coxmty, 
New  Yorlv,  December  29,  1814.  lie  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Univeraaliat  denomination  : 
but  hU  8ynipathie.H  are  not  bounded  by  the  limits  of  any  sect.  Since  1848  he  has 
be«n  settled  over  a  church  in  New  York.  He  i.s  one  of  the  most  eloquent  pulpit  ora- 
tors In  America.  He  ia  remarkable  for  eamestneiis  and  persuasivencs-s  flowing  firom 
a  warm  heart  and  a  genial  temperament.  His  style  is  picturesque  and  striking  ;  his 
thoughts  are  commended  to  his  hearers  by  a  voice  of  uncommon  richness  and  power. 

THE  grandest  scale  on  which  the  operation  of  a  Provi- 
dence appeal's  is  the  entire  system  of  the  natural 
world.  It  is  true  that  here  is  the  field  from  which,  in 
theory,  many  seem  to  exclude  the  notion  of  a  Providence. 
They  speak  of  Nature  as  a  stupendous  machine,  wound 
up  and  running  by  its  own  vitality,  —  an  automaton 
which,  by  a  kind  of  clock-work,  simulates  a  life  and  an 
intelligence  that  are  really  absent  from  it.  Or,  if  they  do 
not  deny  the  operation  of  a  Divine  Providence,  they  refer 
to  what  are  termed  "  the  laws  of  nature  "  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  shut  off  the  immediate  agency  of  God. 

But  what  is  a  law  of  nature,  except  a  fixed  way  in 
which  the  Creator  works  ?  The  finest  element  that  the 
chemist  can  detect — the  subtile,  immaterial  force  what- 
ever it  may  be  —  is  not  the  law,  but  merely  an  expression 
of  the  law.  And  in  the  last  analysis  we  cannot  separate 
law  from  the  operation  of  intelligent  will. 

I  do  not  say  that  God  acts  only  through  nature,  or 
that  God  is  identical  with  nature  ;  but  in  a  profound 
sense  it  is  true  that  nature  is  Providence.  God,  who  in 
essence  is  distinct  from  his  works,  is  perpetually  in  his 
works.  And  so  every  night  and  every  day  his  provi- 
dence is  illustrated  before  us.  His  beneficence  streams 
out  from  the  morning  sun,  and  his  love  looks  down  upon 


224  THE  i^IXTH  HEADER. 

us  from  the  starry  eyes  of  midiii^^liL.  It  is  his  solicitude 
that  wraps  us  in  the  air,  and  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  so 
to  speak,  that  keeps  our  pulses  beating. 

0,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  realize  that  the  Divine  Power 
is  always  working ;  that  nature,  in  every  valve  and  every 
artery,  is  full  of  the  presence  of  God !  It  is  a  great  thing 
to  conceive  of  Providence  as  both  general  and  special, 
comprehending  immensity  in  its  plan,  yet  sustaining  the 
frailest  being,  and  elaborating  the  humblest  form.  Take 
up  as  much  as  you  can,  in  your  imagination,  the  great 
circle  of  existence.  How  wide  its  sweep  !  How  immeas- 
urable its  currents !  And  are  there  some  who  tell  us 
that  God  cares  only  for  the  grand  whole,  and  has  no 
regard  for  details,  —  that  this  is  beneath  the  majesty  of 
his  nature,  the  dignity  of  his  scheme  ? 

I  say,  again,  that  nature  is  Providence ;  and  this  tells 
us  a  different  story.  For  it  is  full  of  minute  ministra- 
tions, as  though  the  Divine  solicitude  were  concentrated 
upon  the  insect  or  the  worm;  so  that  whatever  thing 
you  observe,  it  seems  as  though  the  universe  were  con- 
structed and  arranged  for  that  alone. 

And  the  sublimities  of  God's  glory  beam  upon  us  in 
his  care  for  the  little,  as  well  as  in  his  adjustments  of  the 
great ;  in  the  comfort  which  surrounds  the  little  wood-bird 
and  blesses  the  denizen  of  a  single  leaf,  as  well  as  in  hap- 
piness that  streams  through  the  hierarchies  of  being  that 
cluster  and  swarm  in  yon  forests  of  the  firmament;  in 
the  skill  displayed  in  the  spider's  eye,  in  the  beauty  that 
quivers  upon  the  butterfly's  wing,  as  in  the  splendors  that 
emboss  the  chariot-wheels  of  night,  or  glitter  in  the  san- 
dals of  the  morning. 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.  225 

XL— THE   WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

REV.  THOMAS  STARR  KING. 

Thomas  Starr  Kiko,  an  American  divine  and  author,  was  bom  in  New  Toric,  De- 
cember 16,  1824  ;  and  died  in  San  Francisco,  Marcli  4,  1864.  He  was  settled  over 
Hollis  Street  Church,  Boston,  in  December.  1848,  and  continued  in  that  place  until 
April,  1800,  when  he  went  to  San  Francisco  to  talte  charjje  of  a  Unitarian  congrega- 
tion there.  He  had  great  influence  there  by  his  eloqueut  exertions  on  behalf  of  tliu 
Union,  and  against  tiie  Rebellion.  As  a  preacher  and  lecturer,  combining  a  fer\'id 
spirit  witit  elegance  of  expression,  he  enjoyed  great  and  deserved  i>opularity.  The 
work  by  which  he  is  best  known  is  entitled  "  The  White  Hills :  Their  Legends  and 
Poetry,"  published  in  quarto  in  1859. 

WELL  has  it  been  said,  that  "  mountains  are  to  the 
rest  of  the  body  of  the  earth  what  violent  muscular 
action  is  to  the  body  of  man.  The  muscles  and  tendons 
of  its  anatomy  are,  in  the  mountains,  brought  out  with 
fierce  and  convulsive  energy,  full  of  expression,  passion, 
and  strength ;  the  plains  and  the  lower  hills  are  the 
repose  and  the  effortless  motion  of  the  frame,  wlien  its 
muscles  lie  dormant  and  concealed  beneath  the  lines  of 
its  beauty,  yet  ruling  those  lines  in  their  every  undula- 
tion." 

This  vigor,  this  fierce  vitality  in  which  they  had  their 
origin,  is  the  source  of  much  of  the  exhilaration  which 
the  sight  of  their  wild  outline  inspires,  even  when  the 
beholder  is  unconscious  of  it.  The  waves  of  flame  that 
drove  up  the  great  wedges  of  granite  in  New  Hamp- 
.shire  through  ribs  of  sienite  and  gneiss,  bolted  them  with 
traps  of  porphyry  and  quartz,  crusted  them  witli  mica  and 
.^ichist,  and  cross-riveted  them  with  spikes  of  iron,  lead, 
and  tin,  suggest  their  power  in  the  strength  with  which 
the  mountains  are  organized  into  the  landscape,  just  as 
the  force  of  a  man's  temperament  is  shown  in  the  lines 
of  his  jaw  and  nose. 

The  richest  Iwauty  that  invests  the  mountains  suggests 


226  THE  SIXTH   HEADER. 

this  branch  of  their  utility.  The  mists  that  settle  round 
them,  above  which  their  cones  sometimes  float,  aerial 
islands  in  a  stagnant  sea;  the  veils  of  rain  that  trail 
along  them ;  the  crystal  snow  that  makes  the  light  twinkle 
and  dance ;  the  sombre  thunder-heads  that  invest  them 
with  Sinai-like  awe,  —  are  all  connected  with  their  mission 
as  the  hydraulic  distributors  of  the  world,  —  the  mighty 
trouglis  that  apportion  to  the  land  the  moisture  which  the 
noiseless  solar  suction  is  ever  lifting  from  the  sea.  Their 
peaks  are  the  cradles,  their  furrows  the  first  playgrounds, 
of  the  great  rivers  of  the  earth. 

Take  a  century  or  two  into  account,  and  we  find  the 
mountains  fertilizing  the  soil  by  the  minerals  which  they 
restore  to  it  to  compensate  the  wastes  of  the  harvests. 
"  The  hills,  which,  as  compared  with  living  beings,  seem 
everlasting,  are,  in  truth,  as  perishing  as  they.  Its  veins 
of  flowing  fountain  weary  the  mountain  heart,  as  the 
crimson  piUse  does  ours !  The  natural  force  of  the  iron 
crag  is  abated  in  its  appointed  time  like  the  strength  of 
the  sinews  in  a  human  old  age  ;  and  it  is  but  the  lapse  of 
the  longer  ye^rs  of  decay  which,  in  the  sight  of  its  Cre- 
ator, distinguishes  the  mountain  range  from  the  moth  and 
the  worm." 

We  see,  then,  in  looking  at  a  cliain  of  lofty  hills,  and 
in  thinking  of  their  perpetual  waste  in  the  service  of  the 
lowlands,  that  the  moral  and  physical  worlds  are  built  on 
the  same  pattern. 

.  They  represent  the  heroes  and  all  beneficent  genius. 
They  receive  upon  their  heads  and  sides  the  larger  bap- 
tisms from  the  heavens,  not  to  be  selfish  with  their  liches, 
but  to  give,  —  to  give  all  that  is  poured  upon  them,  — 
yes,  and  something  of  themselves  with  every  stream 
and  tide. 


Tin:    JI'HITE  MOUNTAINS. 


227 


When  we  look  u}»  ai  ..Id  Lafayette,  or  along  the  eastern 
slopes  of  Mt.  Washington,  we  find  that  the  lines  of  noblest 
expression  are  those  which  the  torrents  have  made  where 
soil  has;  hoon  torn  nut,  and  mcks  have  been  grooved,  and 


228  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

ridges  have  been  made  more  nervous,  and  the  walls  of 
mvines  have  been  channelled  for  noble  pencillings  of 
shadow  by  the  waste  of  the  mountain  in  its  patient 
suffering. 

In  its  gala-day  of  sunlight  the  ailist  finds  that  its 
glory  is  its  character. 

All  its  losses  are  gloritied  then  into  expression. 

The  great  mountains  rise  in  the  landscape  as  heroes 
and  prophets  in  history,  ennobled  by  what  they  have 
given,  sublime  in  the  expressions  of  struggle  and  pain, 
invested  with  richest  draperies  of  light,  because  their 
brows  have  been  torn  and  their  cheeks  have  been 
furrowed  by  toils  and  cares  in  behalf  of  districts  be- 
low. 

Upon  the  mountains  is  written  the  law,  and  in  their 
grandeur  is  displayed  the  fulfilment  of  it,  that  perfection 
comes  through  suffering. 

But  we  come  to  the  highest  use  which  mountains  serve 
when  we  speak  of  their  beauty.  No  farm  in  Coos  *  County 
has  been  a  tithe  so  serviceable  as  the  cone  of  Mt.  Wash- 
ington, with  the  harvests  of  color  that  have  been  reaped 
from  it  for  the  canvas  of  artists  or  for  the  joy  of  vis- 
itors. 

Think  of  the  loss  to  human  nature  if  the  summits 
of  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Jungfrau-f  could  be  levelled, 
and  their  jagged  sides,  sheeted  with  snow  and  flaming 
with  amethyst  and  gold,  should  be  softened  by  the  sun 
and  tilled  for  vines  and  com !  Pour  out  over  them  every 
year  all  the  wine  that  is  wrung  from  the  vineyards  of 
Italy  and  France,  and  what  a  mere  sprinkling  in  compari- 
son with  the  floods  of  amber,  of  purple,  and  of  more  vivid 
and  celestial  flames,  with  which  no  wine  was  ever  pierced, 

*  Pronounced  Co-6s'.  +  Pronounce<^l  Yung'frofi. 


THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.  229 

that  are  shed  over  them  by  one  sunrise,  or  that  flow  up 
their  cold  acclivities  at  each  clear  sunset. 

The  mountains  are  more  grand  and  inspiring  when  we 
stand  at  the  proper  distance  and  look  at  them  than  when 
we  look  from  them.  Their  highest  call  is  to  be  resting- 
places  of  the  light,  the  stafl's  from  wliich  the  most  gor- 
geous banners  of  morning  and  evening  are  displayed. 
And  these  uses  we  may  observe  and  enjoy  among  the 
moderate  mountains  of  New  Hampshire. 

They  are  huge  lay  figures  on  which  Nature  shows  off 
the  splendors  of  her  aerial  wardrobe.  She  makes  them 
wear  mourning-veils  of  shadow,  exquisite  lace-work  of  dis- 
tant rain,  hoary  wigs  of  cloud,  the  blue  costume  of  north- 
west winds,  the  sallow  dress  of  sultry  southern  airs,  white 
wrappers  of  dogday  fog,  purple  and  scarlet  vests  of  sun- 
set light,  gauzy  films  of  moonliglit,  the  gorgeous  embroid- 
ery of  autumn  chemistries,  the  flashing  ermine  dropped 
from  the  winter  sky,  and  the  glittering  jewelry  strewn 
over  their  snowy  vestments  by  the  cunning  fingers  of  the 
frost.  These  are  the  crops  which  the  intellect  and  heart 
find  waiting  and  waving  for  them,  without  any  effort  or 
care  of  mortal  culture,  on  the  upper  barrenness  of  the 
hUls. 

'  *  So  call  not  waste  that  barren  cone 
Above  the  floral  zone. 
Where  forests  starve  ; 
It  is  pure  use  ;  — 

What  sheaves  like  those  which  here  we  glean  and  bind 
Of  a  celestial  Ceres  and  the  Muse  ?  " 


230  THE   >L\rU   L'EADEn. 


XLL  — ABT?AHAM   DAVENPORT. 

NS  111  ITIKR, 

JOHK  GreenLEAF  Wiiittier  was  lK)ni   in   Ii;i\iT!iill,    M:i.ss:i(  Ini-.  It-,   in  1>0S.     Hr 

has  writltii  imnli  in  jiiosr  uikI  \'  ;  riim  >t- 

ness  of  txH).',  IiIkIi  moral  imrpos-  ...i  ..;   a 

sincere  and  l.arl<.s>  f  i 
brave  ami  1(>\  in;:  h< 

lire,  from  tlir  !  -'■  •  .  ,  .  ,    .\.  .,  ],..„. .  ......  ..,  i.a.-, 

f..uu(l  thr  ij.  .;,  uitlioiit  doing  any  violcMce  to 

inilh.     Ill  d.  .           ..autifnlly:  and  a  vein  of  genuine 
tcndeme^^  run-  tlii"U-li  in-  writings. 

]N  llir  old  <la\s  (;i  cu-tMi:!  lai.i  aside 
Willi  l.iv.-clir.s  and  (-..ckcl  lials)  tlie  people  sent 
Tii'ir  \vi-r-,i  iiidi  t(<  iiiakf  till'  public  laws  ; 
And  .-M,  lV"iii  a  liiitwii  lioiiieslcad.  win  iv  tlic  .^(Unid 
I)nnk>  till'  >iiiall  trilmt.-  cf  tlic  Miaii.K, 
A\'a\rd   cvti    liy  llic   w.mkIs  i.l'  1^  ipp' »\\:iiii-. 
.\iid   liall"N\i'<l  l.y  jdiiv  live.-  aiid  traiKjuil  di  r.ths, 
Stainldid  sriit  tip  t"  the  council.^  of  tli"  ^'  ■»'■ 
AVi.-^d<»iii  and  ui  H''  in  .Mn-aliani  Oavt  ; 

T  was  on  a  Mav  day  .'l  lii-'  iar  old  year 
Seventeen  hnndiv.l  .i-hiv.  tliat  th.-iv  fell 
Over  the  lilnciu  and  >\v.mi  hi.-  d'the  sprinjT, 
Ov»'r  tlie  fresh  earth  and  tin-  li.'aven  of  noon, 
A  horror  of  great  dark  11.--.  hk.-  tli.'  niuht 
In  day  of  whieli  tlic  Xorlan.l  saj^as '■  trll. — ■ 
The  twih-lit  .if  tlic  ,u..ds.     Thr  l..\vdiuii.:  sky 
^Vas  hlack  witli  ominous  'I.mkU.  >avi'  wh.-re  its  rim 
AVas  frill-. m1  with  a  dull  ,-l..\v.  lik.-  that  which  climbs 
The  erater's  side.s  from  th.'  r.-.j  jndl  helow. 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barnyard  fowls 

Roosted  :  th.'  <  attle  at  the  pasture-bars 

Lowed,  and  '     ';    I  homeward  :  bats  on  leathern  wings 

*  A  -.1  ,a  1-  an  old  heroic  Scandinavian  tale. 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT.  231 

Flitted  abroad  ;  the  sounds  of  labor  died  ; 

Men  prayed,  and  women  wept ;  all  ears  grew  sharp 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter 

The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 

Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 

As  Justice  and  inexorable  law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim  as  ghosts, 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 

Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 

"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !     Let  us  adjourn," 

Some  said  ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 

The  intolerable  hush.     "  This  well  may  be 

The  day  of  judgment,  which  the  world  awaits 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 

My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 

To  occupy  till  he  come.     So,  at  the  post 

Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 

I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face,  — 

No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task. 

But  reaily  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls ; 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would  say, 

Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 

Bring  in  the  candles."     And  tliey  brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 

"  An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 

The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries."     Whereupon, 

Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 

Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  si)eech 

Save  the  ton  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 

The  shri'wd  <lrv  liiiiiu>r  natiiml  to  the  man  : 


232  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 
Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 
And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass. 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 


XLIL  — RICHELIEU'S  VINDICATION. 

BULWEB. 

Sir  Edward  Gbobob  Earle  Bulwcr-Lytton  (generally  known  by  his  original 
name  of  Bulwer),  one  of  the  most  popular  and  distinguished  writers  of  England, 
was  bom  at  Haydon  Hall,  in  the  county  of  Norfolk,  in  1805,  educated  at  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  and  died  January  18,  1873.  He  was  the  author  of  a  large 
number  of  novels,  as  well  as  of  plays,  poems,  and  miscellanies.  He  was  a  wi-iter 
of  various  and  versatile  power,  and  his  novels  are  remarkable  for  brilliant  descrip- 
tion, startling  adventures,  sharp  delineation  of  character,  and  —  especially  the  later 
ones  — a  vein  of  philosophical  reflection.  The  moral  tone  of  his  earlier  works  is  not 
always  to  be  commended,  but  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  substantial  literary  merit, 
there  is  a  marked  improvement  in  those  of  later  date. 

The  following  passage  Is  fh>m  "  Richelieu,"  a  play  fonnded  upon  certain  incidents 
in  the  life  of  the  great  French  statesman  of  that  name. 

MY  liege,  your  anger  can  recall  your  tnist, 
Annul  my  office,  spoil  me  of  my  lands, 
Rifle  my  cofiers  ;  but  my  name,  my  deeds. 
Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  sceptre. 
Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will ;  —  from  kings, 
Lo,  I  appeal  to  Time  !     Be  just,  my  liege. 
I  found  your  kingdom  rent  with  heresies, 
And  bristling  with  rebellion  ;  —  lawless  nobles 
And  breadless  serfs ;  England  fomenting  discord  ; 
Austria,  her  clutch  on  your  dominion ;  Spain 
Forging  the  prodigal  gold  of  either  Ind 


JOHN  HAMPDEN.  233 

To  ann^  thunderbolts.     The  Arts  lay  dead ; 

Trade  rotted  in  your  marts ;  your  armies  mutinous, 

Your  treasury  bankrupt.     Would  you  now  revoke 

Your  trust,  so  be  it !  and  I  leave  you,  sole, 

Supremest  Monarch  of  the  mightiest  realm. 

From  Ganges  to  the  icebergs.     Look  without,  — 

No  foe  not  humbled  !     Look  within,  —  the  Arts 

Quit,  for  our  schools,  their  old  Ilesperides, 

The  golden  Italy  !  while  throughout  the  veins 

Of  your  vast  empire  flows  in  strengthening  tides 

Trade,  the  calm  health  of  Nations !     Sire,  I  know 

That  men  have  called  me  cruel ;  — 

I  am  not ;  —  I  am  just  !     I  found  France  rent  asunder, 

The  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor  banditti ; 

Sloth  in  the  mart,  and  schism  within  the  temple ; 

Brawls  festering  to  rebellion ;  and  weak  laws 

Eotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths. 

I  have  re-created  France  ;  and,  from  the  ashes 

Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  carcass. 

Civilization,  on  her  luminous  wings. 

Soars,  phcenix-like,  to  Jove  !     What  was  my  art  ] 

Genius,  some  say ;  —  some.  Fortune ;  Witchcraft,  some. 

Not  so  ;  —  my  art  was  Justice. 


XLIIL  — JOHN  HAMPDEN. 

MACAULAY. 

Thomas  Babijjoton  Macaulat  was  born  in  the  village  of  Rothley,  in  thn  county 
of  Leicester,  England.  October  25,  1800  :  and  died  December  28,  1859.  He  wa«  edu- 
cated at  Cambridge  University,  and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1828.  In  1830  he  became 
a  meniber  of  Parliament,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the  debates  on  the  Reform  Bill. 
In  1834  he  was  sent  to  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council.  Returning  home 
in  1838,  he  was  again  elected  to  Parliament  in  1839,  and  was  appointe<l  Secretary  of 
W.ar.  At  the  election  of  1847  he  was  defeated,  and  remained  out  of  Parlinmont  till 
)s'.'>    tv)iiii  \<o  .i-.iin  lu-r- 11111'  n  iiKMiiliiT       Hi'  WHS  rri>at»»«l  a  ;>fiT  of  Kntrl.-ind,  with   \\\c 


234  rill-:  sixth  READER. 

title  of  Baron  Maoaulay  of  Rothlpy,  in  1857.  His  principal  literary  work  is  a  History 
of  England,  in  five  volumes,  the  last  a  fragmentary  volume  published  since  his  la- 
mented death.  No  historical  work  in  the  English  language  has  ever  ei^oyed  so  wide 
a  popularity.  It  is  written  in  a  most  animated  and  attractive  style,  and  abounds 
with  brilliant  pictures.  II  embodies  the  results  of  very  thorough  research,  and  its 
tone  and  spirit  are  generous  and  liberal. 

Hi.s  essays,  most  of  which  were  originally  contributed  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Review," 
have  had  a  popularity  greater  even  than  that  of  his  History.  They  are  remarkable 
for  brilliant  rhetorical  power,  splendid  coloring,  and  affluence  of  illustration. 

Lord  Macaulay  has  also  written  "  I^ays  of  Ant-ient  Rome,"  and  some  ballads  in  the 
same  style,  which  are  full  of  animation  and  energy,  and  have  the  true  trumpet  ring 
which  stirs  the  soul  and  kindles  the  blood.  His  parliamentary  speeches  have  been 
also  collected  and  published,  and  are  marked  by  the  same  brilliant  rhetorical  energy 
as  his  writings. 

The  following  account  of  the  death  and  character  of  John  Hampden,  the  great  Eng- 
lish patriot,  is  taken  from  a  review  of  Lonl  Nugent's  Memorials  of  Hampden,  pub- 
lished in  the  "  E«linburgh  Review  "  in  1831. 

In  June,  1643,  Pritice  Rupert,  a  nephew  of  Charles  I.,  and  a  general  In  hia  service, 
had  sallied  out  from  Oxford  on  a  predatory  expedition,  and,  after  some  slight  suc- 
cesses, was  prepai-ing  to  huiTj-  back  with  his  prisoners  and  booty.  The  Earl  of  Essex 
was  the  Parliamentary  commander-in-<".hief. 

AS  soon  as  Hampden  received  intelligence  of  Rupert's 
incursion,  he  sent  off  a  horseman  with  a  message  to 
the  general.  In  the  mean  time  he  resolved  to  set  out 
witli  all  the  cavalry  he  could  muster,  for  the  purpose  of 
impeding  the  march  of  the  enemy  till  Essex  could  take 
measures  for  cutting  off  their  retreat.  A  considerable  body 
of  horse  and  dragoons  volunteered  to  follow  him.  He  was 
not  their  commander.  He  did  not  even  belong  to  their 
branch  of  the  service.  "  But  he  was,"  says  Lord  Claren- 
don, "second  to  none  but  the  general  himself  in  the 
observance  and  application  of  all  men."  On  the  field  of 
Chalgrove  he  came  up  with  Rupert.  A  fierce  skirmish 
ensued.  .  In  the  first  charge  Hampden  was  struck  in  the 
shoulder  by  two  bullets,  which  broke  the  bone  and  lodged 
in  his  body.  The  troops  of  the  Parliament  lost  heart  and 
gave  way.  Rupert,  after  pursuing  them  for  a  short  time, 
hastened  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  made  his  retreat  unmo- 
lested to  Oxford. 

Hampden,  with  his  head  drooping,  and  his  hands  lean- 


J()ii.\  UAMVUEy.  236 

ing  on  his  horse's  nock,  moved  feebly  out  of  the  battle. 
The  mansion  which  had  been  inhabited  by  liis  father-in- 
law,  and  from  whicli,  in  liis  youth,  he  had  carried  home 
his  bride  Elizabeth,  was  in  sight.  There  still  remains  an 
affecting  tradition  that  he  looked  for  a  moment  towards 
that  beloved  house,  and  made  an  effort  to  go  thither  and 
die.  But  the  enemy  lay  in  that  direction.  He  turned 
his  horse  towards  Thame,  where  he  arrived  almost  faint- 
ing with  agony.  The  surgeons  dressed  liis  wounds.  But 
there  was  no  hope.  The  pain  which  he  suffered  was  most 
excruciating.  But  he  endured  it  with  admirable  firmness 
and  resignation. 

His  first  care  was  for  his  country.  He  wrote  from  his 
bed  several  letters  to  London,  concerning  public  affairs,  and 
sent  a  last  pressing  message  to  the  head-quarters,  recom- 
mending that  the  dispersed  forces  should  be  concentrated. 
When  his  public  duties  were  performed,  he  calmly  pre- 
pared himself  to  die.  He  was  attended  by  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England,  with  whom  he  had  lived  in 
habits  of  intimacy,  and  by  the  chaplain  of  the  Bucking- 
hamshire Greencoats,  Dr.  Spurton,  whom  Baxter  describes 
as  a  famous  and  excellent  divine. 

A  short  time  before  his  deatli,  the  sacrament  was 
administered  to  him.  His  intellect  remained  unclouded. 
When  all  was  nearly  over,  he  lay  murmuring  faint  prayers 
for  himself,  and  for  the  cause  in  which  he  died.  "  Lord 
Jesus,"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  moment  of  the  last  agony, 
"  receive  my  soul.  O  Lord,  save  my  country !  O  Loi^, 
be  merciful  to  — "  In  that  broken  ejaculation  passed 
away  his  noble  and  fearless  spirit. 

He  was  buried  in  the  parish  church  of  Hampden.  His 
soldiers,  bareheaded,  with  reversed  arms  and  muffled  drums 
and  colors,  escorted  his  body  to  the  grave,  singing,  as  they 


236  THK   >IXrH  READER. 

marched,  that  lofty  and  melancholy  psalm  in  which  the 
fragility  of  human  life  is  contrasted  with  the  immutability 
of  Him  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  yesterday  when 
it  is  passed,  and  as  a  watch  in  the  night. 

The  news  of  Hampden's  death  produced  us  great  a  con- 
sternation in  his  party,  according  to  Clarendon,  as  if  their 
whole  army  had  been  cut  off.  The  journals  of  the  time 
amply  prove  that  the  Parliament  and  all  its  friends  were 
filled  with  grief  and  dismay.  Lord  Nugent  has  quoted 
a  remarkable  passage  from  ilic  next  "Weekly  Iiiitlli-cii- 
cer "  :  "  The  loss  of  Colonel  Hampden  goeth  near  the 
heart  of  every  man  that  loves  the  good  of  his  king  and 
country,  and  mak.  >  some  conceive  little  content  to  be  at 
the  army,  now  that  he  is  gone.  The  memory  of  tliis 
deceased  colonel  is  such,  that  in  no  age  to  come  but  it 
will  more  and  more  be  had  in  honor  and  esteem ;  a  man 
so  religious,  and  of  that  prudence,  judgment,  temper, 
valor,  and  integrity,  that  he  hath  left  few  his  like  behind." 
He  had  indeed  left  none  his  like  behind  him. 

There  still  remain'  <k  indeed,  in  his  party  many  acute 
intellects,  many  eloquent  tongues,  many  brave  and  honest 
hearts.  There  still  remained  a  rugged  and  clownish  sol- 
dier, half  fanatic,  half  buffoon,*  whose  tal.  nts,  discerned 
as  yet  only  by  one  penetrating  eye,  were  equal  to  all  the 
highest  (hi ties  of  the  soldier  and  the  prince.  But  in 
Hampden,  and  in  Hampden  alone,  were  united  all  the 
qualities  which,  at  such  a  crisis,  were  necessary  to  save  the 
state,  —  the  valor  and  energy  of  Cromwell,  the  discern- 
ment and  eloquence  of  Vane,  the  lunnanity  and  modera- 
tion of  Manchester,  the  stern  inte^rii  \  nj'  Hale,  the  ardent 
public  s]nrit  of  Sidney.  Others  might  possess  the  qual- 
ities which  were  necessary  to  save  the  popular  party  in 

*  Cromwell. 


A    TASTE  tuR  READING.  237 

the  crisis  of  danger  ;  be  alone  had  both  the  power  and  the 
inchnation  to  restrain  its  excesses  in  the  hour  of  triumph. 
Others  could  conquer ;  he  alone  could  reconcile. 

A  heart  as  bold  as  his  brought  up  the  cuirassiers  who 
turned  the  tide  of  battle  on  Marston  Moor.  As  skilful  an 
eye  as  his  watched  the  Scotch  army  descending  from  tlie 
heights  over  Dunbar.  But  it  was  when,  U>  the  sullen 
tyranny  of  Laud  and  Charles  had  succeeded  the  fierce 
conflict  of  sects  and  factions,  ambitious  of  ascendency  and 
burning  for  revenge,  —  it  was  when  the  vices  and  igno- 
rance which  the  old  tyranny  had  generated  threatened  the 
new  freedom  with  destruction, —  that  England  missed  the 
sobriety,  the  self-command,  the  perfect  soundness  of  judg- 
ment, the  perfect  rectitude  of  intention,  to  which  the  his- 
tory of  revolutions  furnishes  no  parallel,  or  furnishes  a 
parallel  in  Washington  alone. 


XLIV.  — A  TASTE   FOR   READING. 

GEORGE  S.    HILLARD. 

^T"7"E  cannot  linger  in  the  beautiful  creations  of  in- 
V  V  ventive  genius,  or  pursue  the  splendid  discoveries 
of  modem  science,  without  a  new  sense  of  the  capacities 
and  dignity  of  human  nature,  which  naturally  leads  to  a 
stirner  self-respect,  to  manlier  resolves  and  higher  aspira- 
tions. We  cannot  read  the  ways  of  God  to  man  as  re- 
vealed in  the  history  of  nations,  of  sublime  virtues  as 
exemplified  in  the  lives  of  great  and  good  men,  without 
t'alHng  into  that  mood  of  thoughtful  admiration,  which, 
though  it  be  but  a  transient  glow,  is  a  purifying  and  ele- 
vating influence  while  it  lasts. 


238  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  study  of  history  is  especially  valuable  as  an  anti- 
dote to  self-exaggeration.  It  teaches  lessons  of  humility, 
patience,  and  submission.-  When  we  read  of  realms 
smitten  with  the  scourge  of  famine  or  pestilence,  or 
strewn  with  the  bloody  ashes  of  war ;  of  grass  growing 
in  the  streets  of  great  cities ;  of  ships  rotting  at  the 
wharves  ;  o^  fathers  burying  their  sons  ;  of  strong  men 
begging  their  bread ;  of  fields  untilled,  and  silent  work- 
shops, and  despairing  countenances,  —  we  hear  a  voice 
of  rebuke  to  om*  own  clamorous  sorrows  and  peevish 
complaints.  We  learn  that  pain  and  sufiering  and  dis- 
appointment are  a  part  of  God  s  providence,  and  that  no 
contract  was  ever  yet  made  with  man  by  which  virtue 
should  secure  to  him  temporal  happiness. 

In  books,  be  it  remembered,  we  have  the  best  products 
of  the  best  minds.  We  should  any  of  us  esteem  it  a 
great  privilege  to  pass  an  evening  with  Shakespeare  or 
Bacon,  were  such  a  thing  possible.  But,  were  we  ad- 
mitted to  the  presence  of  one  of  these  illustrious  men, 
we  might  find  him  touched  with  infirmity,  or  oppressed 
with  weariness,  or  darkened  with  the  shadow  of  a  recent 
trouble,  or  absorbed  by  intrusive  and  tyrannous  thoughts. 
To  us  the  oracle  might  be  dumb,  and  the  light  eclipsed. 

But,  when  we  take  down  one  of  their  volumes,  we  run 
no  such  risk.  Here  we  have  their  best  thoughts,  em- 
balmed in  their  best  words ;  immortal  flowers  of  poetry, 
wet  with  Castalian  dews,  and  the  golden  fruit  of  wisdom 
that  had  long  ripened  on  the  bough  before  it  was  gath- 
ered. Kere  we  find  the  growth  of  the  choicest  seasons 
of  the  mind,  when  mortal  cares  were  forgotten,  and 
mortal  weaknesses  were  subdued ;  and  the  soul,  stripped 
of  its  vanities  and  its  passions,  lay  bare  to  the  finest 
effluences  of  truth  and  beauty.     We  may  be  sure  that 


A    TAiSTE  FOR  READINO.  239 

Shakespeare  never  out-talked  his  Hamlet,  nor  Bacon' his 
Essays.  Great  writors  nro  iiidciMl  Ijest  known  through 
their  books 

For  the  knowledge  that  comes  from  books>  I  would 
claim  no  more  than  it  is  fairly  entitled  to.  I  am  weU 
aware  that  there  is  no  inevitable  connection  between 
intellectual  cultivation,  on  the  one  hand,  and  individual 
virtue  or  social  well-l)eing,  on  the  other.  "The  tree  of 
knowledge  is  not  the  tree  of  life." 

I  admit  that  genius  and  learning  are  sometimes  found 
in  combination  with  gross  vices,  and  not  unfrequently 
with  contemptible  weaknesses  ;  and  that  a  community  at 
once  cultivated  and  corrupt  is  no  impossible  monster. 
But  it  is  no  overstatement  to  say,  that,  other  things  being 
equal,  the  man  who  has  the  greatest  amount  of  intel- 
lectual resources  is  in  the  least  danger  from  inferior 
temptations,  —  if  for  no  other  reason,  because  he  has 
fewer  idle  moments.  Tlie  ruin  of  most  men  dates  from 
some  vacant  hour.  Occupation  is  the  armor  of  the  soul ; 
and  the  train  of  Idleness  is  borne  up  by  all  the  vices. 
I  remember  a  satirical  poem,  in  which  the  Devil  is  rep- 
resented as  fishing  for  men,  and  adapting  his  baits  to  the 
tast«  and  temperament  of  his  prey ;  but  the  idler,  he 
said,  pleased  him  most,  because  he  bit  the  naked  hook. 

To  a  young  man  away  from  home,  friendless  and  for- 
lorn in  a  great  city,  the  hours  of  peril  are  those  between 
sunset  and  bedtime ;  for  the  moon  and  stars  see  more  of 
evil  in  a  single  hour  than  the  sun  in  his  whole  day's  cir- 
cuit. The  poet's  visions  of  evening  are  all  compact  of 
tender  and  soothing  images.  It  brings  the  wanderer  to 
his  home,  the  child  to  his  mother's  arms,  the  ox  to  his 
stall,  and  the  weary  laborer  to  his  rest  But  to  the 
gentle-hearted  youth  wlio  is  thrown  upon  the  rocks  of 


240  THE  SIXTH  READER 

a  pitiless  city,  and  stands  "homeless  amid  a  thousand 
homes/'  the  approach  of  evening  brings  with  it  an  aching 
sense  of  loneliness  and  desolation,  which  comes  down 
upon  the  spirit  like  darkness  upon  the  earth. 

In  this  mood,  his  best  impulses  become  a  snare  to  him  ; 
and  he  is  led  astray  because  he  is  social,  affectionate,  sym- 
pathetic, and  warm-hearted.  If  there  be  a  young  man, 
thus  circumstanced,  within  the  sound  of  my  voice,  let 
me  say  to  him,  that  books  are  the  friends  of  the  friend- 
less, and  that  a  library  is  the  home  of  the  homeless.  A 
taste  for  reading  will  always  carry  you  into  the  best 
possible  company,  and  enable  you  to  converse  with  men 
who  will  instruct  you  by  their  wisdom,  and  charm  you 
by  their  wit ;  who  will  soothe  you  when  fretted,  refresh 
you  when  weary,  counsel  you  when  perplexed,  and  sym- 
pathize with  you  at  all  times. 


XLV.  — BRIXGING  OUR  SHEAVES  WITH  US. 

ELIZABETH  AKER8. 

THE  time  for  toil  has  passed,  and  night  has  come,  — 
The  last  and  saddest  of  the  harvest  eves ; 
Worn  out  with  labor  long  and  wearisome, 
Drooping  and  faint,  the  reapers  hasten  home, 
Each  laden  with  his  sheaves. 

Last  of  the  laborers,  thy  feet  I  gain, 
Lord  of  the  harvest !  and  my  spirit  grieves 
That  I  am  burdened,  not  so  much  with  grain, 
As  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  and  brain  ;  — 
Master,  behold  my  sheaves  ! 


LIXES  TO  A   CHILD.  241 

Few,  light,  and  worthless,  —  yet  their  trifling  weight 
Through  all  my  frame  a  weary  aching  leaves ; 
For  long  I  struggled  with  my  hopeless  fate, 
And  stayed  and  toiled  till  it  was  dark  and  late,  — 
Yet  these  are  all  my  sheaves. 

Full  well  I  know  I  have  more  tares  than  wheat. 
Brambles  and  flowers,  dry  stalks  and  withered  leaves ; 
Wherefore  I  blush  and  weep,  as  at  thy  feet 
I  kneel  down  reverently  and  repeat, 
"  Master,  behold  my  sheaves ! " 

I  know  these  blossoms,  clustering  heavily, 
With  evening  dew  upon  their  folded  leaves, 
Can  claim  no  value  or  utility,  — 
Therefore  shall  frograucy  and  beauty  be 
The  glory  of  my  sheaves. 

So  do  I  gather  strength  and  hope  anew  ; 
For  well  I  know  thy  patient  love  perceives 
Not  what  I  di<l,  but  what  I  strove  to  do  : 
And  though  the  full  ripe  ears  be  sadly  few, 
Thou  wilt  accept  my  sheaves. 


XLVI.  — LINES  TO  A  CHILD,  ON  HIS  VOYAGE 
TO  FRANCE,  TO   MEET  HIS  FATHER. 

WARE. 

IfEXRY  Ware,  Jr.,  was  born  In  Ilingham,  Massachusetts.  April  21, 1794  ;  and  died 
September  25,  IS43.  He  was  a  settled  clergyman  in  Boston  from  1817  to  1829,  and 
afterwards  pnifessor  In  the  theoIoyioAl  school  at  Cambridge.  He  published  many 
eaaays  and  discourses  on  moral  and  religions  subjects,  and  a  few  pie<>es  of  inxitry. 
He  was  a  man  of  ardent  piety,  an  earnest  and  excellent  preacher,  and  always  con- 
trolled by  the  highest  sense  of  duty.  His  prose  writings  are  marked  by  simplicity, 
dirrctnem,  and  strong  religious  feeling;  and  the  few  poems  he  wrote  show  poetical 
powers  of  no  common  onler. 

TIm  following  lines  originally  appeared  in  the  "  Christian  Disciple." 


242  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

LO  !  how  impatieotly  upon  the  tide 
The  proud  ship  tosses,  eager  to  bo  free. 
Her  flag  streams  wildly,  and  her  fluttering  sails 
Pant  to  be  on  their  flight.     A  few  hours  more. 
And  she  will  move  in  stately  grandeur  on. 
Cleaving  her  path  majestic  through  the  flood, 
As  if  she  were  a  goddess  of  the  deep. 

O,  't  is  a  thought  sublime,  that  man  can  force 
A  path  upon  the  waste,  can  find  a  way 
Where  all  is  trackless,  and  compel  the  winds, 
Those  freest  agents  of  Almighty  power. 
To  lend  their  untamed  wings,  and  bear  him  on 
To  distant  climes  !     Thou,  William,  still  art  young, 
And  dost  not  see  the  wonder.     Thou  wilt  ti-ead 
The  buoyant  deck,  and  look  upon  the  flood. 
Unconscious  of  the  high  sublimity. 
As  't  were  a  common  thing,  —  thy  soul  unawed. 
Thy  childish  sports  unchecked  ;  while  thinking  man 
Shrinks  back  into  himself,  —  himself  so  mean 
Mid  things  so  vast,  — and,  rapt  in  deepest  awe, 
Bends  to  the  might  of  that  mysterious  Power, 
Who  holds  the  waters  in  his  hand,  and  guides 
The  ungovernable  winds.     T  is  not  in  man 
To  look  unmoved  upon  that  heaving  waste, 
Which,  from  horizon  to  horizon  spread. 
Meets  the  o'erarching  heavens  on  every  side. 
Blending  their  hues  in  distant  ftiintness  there. 

'T  is  wonderfid  !  —  and  yet,  my  boy,  just  such 
Is  life.     Life  is  a  sea  as  fathomless. 
As  wide,  as  terrible,  and  yet  sometimes 
As  calm  and  beautiful.     The  light  of  Heaven 
Smiles  on  it,  Wld  't  is  decked  with  every  hue 
Qf  glory  and  of  joy.     Anon,  dark  clouds 


EXECUTIOX  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.       243 

Arise,  cont«'imiiiy  wmus  of  fate  go  forth, 
And  hope  sits  weeping  o'er  a  general  wreck. 

And  thou  must  sail  upon  this  sea,  a  long, 
Eventful  voyage.     The  wise  mai/  sutfer  wreck, 
The  foolish  must.     0,  then  be  early  wise ! 
Learn  from  the  mariner  his  skilful  art 
To  ride  upon  the  waves,  and  catch  the  breeze. 
And  dare  tlie  tljreatening  storm,  and  trace  a  path 
Mid  countless  dangers,  to  the  destined  port. 
Unerringly  secure.     O,  learn  from  him 
To  station  quick-eyed  Prudence  at  the  helm. 
To  guard  thy  sail  from  Passion's  sudden  blasts, 
And  make  Religion  thy  magnetic  guide. 
Which,  though  it  trembles  as  it  lowly  lies. 
Points  to  the  light  that  changes  not,  in  Heaven  ! 

Farewell,  —  Heaven  smile  propitious  on  thy  course, 
And  favoring  breezes  waft  thee  to  the  arms 
Of  love  paternal.  —  Yes,  and  more  than  this,  — 
Blest  be  thy  passage  o'er  the  changing  sea 
Of  life  ;  the  clouds  be  few  that  intercept 
The  light  of  joy  ;  the  waves  roll  gently  on 
Beneath  thy  bark  of  hope,  and  bear  thee  safe 
To  meet  in  peace  thine  other  father,  —  God. 


XLVIL  — EXECUTION  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

UNOARD. 

John  Linoard  was  born  in  Winchester,  England,  February  5,  1771 ;  and  die<l  July 
13,  1801.  Ho  was  a  clergj'nian  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  The  chief  literary  lalwr  of 
his  life  was  his  "  History  of  EngLnnd,"  from  the  earliest  jicrlod  down  to  the  revolution 
of  1088  ;  the  Litest  edition  of  which  is  in  ten  volumes,  octavo.  This  work  lias  taken  a 
high  and  pcnuancnt  rank  in  the  historical  literature  of  his  couiitrj-.  The  style  is  sim- 
ide.  correct,  and  manly,  without  Iwing  remarkable  for  beauty  or  eloquence.   Tlie  chief 


244  THE  SIXTH  READER 

value  of  the  work  consists  in  its  thorough  and  patient  research  into  the  original  sources 
of  English  history.  How  far  it  is  impartial  when  treating  upon  controverted  points 
is  a  question  wiiich  neither  Catholics  nor  Protestants  are  exactly  in  a  position  to  an- 
swer. Dr.  Linganl  wns  a  sincere  and  conscientious  Catholic  ;  his  temperament  was  calm 
and  judicial  ;  and  if  he  betrays  any  bias  in  favor  of  his  own  faith,  it  is,  perhaps,  no 
more  than  that  unconscious  bias  which  always  attends  genuine  convictiou.  Hid 
History,  at  all  events,  should  be  carefully  read  by  every  one  who  is  not  content 
with  the  cheap  task  of  deciding  before  he  bears  both  sides. 

Dr.  Lingard  also  wrote  **  The  History  and  Antiquities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Church," 
and  some  nianuals  of  religious  teaching. 

Mary  of  Scotland,  aOer  the  total  defeat  of  her  party  at  the  battle  of  Langsidc,  lu 
15G8,  tied  to  Eni;land,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  protection  of  £liz:ibeth,  Queen  of 
England,  by  whom,  however,  she  was  kept  a  prisoner  for  nineteen  years.  She  was 
then  tried  by  a  commission  for  engaging  in  a  conspiracy  against  tlie  life  of  Elizabetli, 
and  condemned  to  death.  She  was  beheaded  February  8,  1687,  at  Fotheringay  Castle, 
in  Northamptonshire ;  and  the  following  is  a  description  of  her  execution. 

IN  the  midst  of  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  had  been 
raised  a  scaffold,  covered  with  black  sei'ge,  and  sur- 
rounded with  a  low  railing.  About  seven  the  doors  were 
thrown  open ;  the  gentlemen  of  the  county  entered  with 
their  attendants;  and  Paulet's*  guard  augmented  the 
number  to  between  one  hundred  and  fifty  and  two  hun- 
dred spectators.  Before  eight,  a  message  was  sent  to  the 
queen,  who  replied  that  she  would  be  ready  in  half  an 
hour.  At  that  time,  Andrews,  the  sheriff,  entered  the 
oratory,  and  Mary  arose,  taking  the  crucifix  from  the  altar 
in  her  right,  and  carrying  her  prayer-book  in  her  left 
hand.  Her  servants  were  forbidden  to  follow ;  they  in- 
sisted ;  but  the  queen  bade  them  to  be  content,  and  turn- 
ing, gave  them  her  blessing.  They  received  it  on  their 
knees,  some  kissing  her  hands,  others  her  mantle.  The 
door  closed ;  and  the  burst  of  lamentation  from  those 
within  resounded  through  the  hall. 

Mary  was  now  joined  by  the  earl  and  her  keepers,  and, 
descending  the  staircase,  found  at  the  foot  Melville,  the 
steward  of  her  household,  who,  for  several  weeks,  had  been 
excluded  from  her  presence.    This  old  and  faithful  servant 

♦  Sir  Amia-s  Paulet  was  the  officer  who  had  the  custody  of  Mary's  person. 


EXECUTION  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.      245 

threw  himself  on  his  knees,  and  wringing  his  hands,  ex- 
claimed, "  Ah,  m«^ani,  unhappy  me  !  was  ever  a  man  on 
earth  the  bearer  of  such  sorrow  as  1  shall  be,  when  I  re- 
port that  my  good  and  gracious  queen  and  mistress  was 
beheaded  in  England  ! "  Here  his  grief  impeded  his  utter- 
ance; and  Mary  replied,  "  Good  Melville,  cease  to  lament ; 
thou  hast  rather  cause  to  joy  than  mourn ;  for  thou  shalt 
see  the  end  of  Mary  Stuart's  troubles.  Know  that  this 
world  is  but  vanity,  subject  to  more  sorrow  than  an  ocean 
of  tears  can  bewail  But  I  pray  thee,  i-eport  that  I  die 
a  tnie  woman  to  my  religion,  to  Scotland,  and  to  France. 
May  God  forgive  them  that  have  long  thirsted  for  my 
blood,  as  the  hart  doth  for  the  brooks  of  water.  0  God, 
thou  art  the  Author  of  truth,  and  Truth  itself !  Thou 
knowest  the  inward  chambers  of  my  tlioughts,  and  that 
I  always  wished  the  union  of  England  and  Scotland. 
Commend  me  to  my  son,  and  tell  him  that  I  have  done 
nothing  prejudicial  to  the  dignity  or  independence  of  his 
crown,  or  favomble  to  the  pretended  superiority  of  our 
enemies."  Then,  bursting  into  tears,  she  said,  "Good 
Melville,  farewell "  ;  and,  kissing  him,  "  Once  again,  good 
MelviUe,  farewell,  and  pray  for  thy  mistress  and  thy 
queen."  It  was  remarked  as  something  extraordinary, 
that  this  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  slie  had  ever  been 
known  to  address  a  person  with  the  pronoun  "  thou." 

The  procession  now  set  forward.  It  was  headed  by  the 
sheriff  and  his  officers ;  next  followed  Paulet  and  Drury, 
and  the  Earls  of  Shrewsbury  and  Kent ;  and  lastly  came 
the  Scottish  queen,  with  Melville  bearing  her  train.  She 
wore  the  richest  of  her  dresses,  —  that  which  was  appro- 
priate to  the  rank  of  a  queen  dowager.  Her  step  was  firm, 
and  her  countenance  cheerful  She  bore  without  shrinking 
the  gaze  of  the  spectators,  and  the  sight  of  the  scaffold, 


246  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

the  block,  and  the  executioner,  and  advanced  into  the  liall 
with  that  grace  and  majesty  which  she  had  so  often  dis- 
played in  her  happier  days,  and  in  the  palace  of  her  fatliers. 
To  aid  her  as  she  mounted  the  scaffold,  Paulet  ofi'ered  his 
arm.  "  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mary  ;  "  it  is  the  last  trouble 
I  shall  give  you,  and  tlie  most  acceptable  service  you  have 
ever  rendered  me." 

The  queen  seated  herself  on  a  stool  which  was  pre- 
pared for  her.  On  her  right  stood  the  two  earls ;  on  the 
left  the  sheriff  and  Beal,  the  clerk  of  the  council ;  in  front, 
the  executioner  from  the  Tower,  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet, 
with  his  assistant,  also  clad  in  black.  The  warrant  was 
read,  and  Mary,  in  an  audible  voice,  addressed  the  as- 
sembly. 

She  would  have  them  recollect  that  she  was  a  sovereign 
princess,  not  subject  to  the  Parliament  of  England,  but 
brought  there  to  suffer  by  injustice  and  violence.  She, 
however,  thanked  her  God  that  he  had  given  her  this 
opportunity  of  publicly  professing  her  religion,  and  of 
declaring,  as  she  had  often  before  declared,  that  she  had 
never  imagined,  nor  compassed,  nor  consented  to,  the 
death  of  the  English  queen,  nor  ever  sought  the  least 
harm  to  lier  person.  After  her  death,  many  things,  which 
were  then  buried  in  darkness,  would  come  to  light.  But 
she  pardoned  from  her  heart  all  her  enemies,  nor  should 
her  tongue  utter  that  which  might  turn  to  their  prejudice. 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  Dr.  Fletcher,  Dean  of  Pe- 
terborough, who,  having  caught  her  eye,  began  to  preacli, 
and  under  that  cover,  perhaps  through  motives  of  zeal, 
contrived  to  insult  the  feelings  of  tlie  unfortunate  sufferer. 
Mary  repeatedly  desired  him  not  to  trouble  himself  and 
her.  He  pei*sisted  ;  she  turned  aside.  He  made  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  scaffold,  and  again  addressed  her  in  front.    An 


EXECUTION  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.     247 

end  was  put  to  this  extraordinary  scene  by  the  Earl  of 
Shrewsbury,  who  ordered  him  to  pray. 

His  prayer  wtis  tlie  echo  of  his  sermon ;  but  Mary  heard 
him  not.  Slie  was  employed  at  the  time  in  her  devotions, 
repeating  with  a  loud  voice,  and  in  the  Latin  language, 
passages  I'l-om  the  Book  of  Psalms ;  and  after  the  dean  was 
reduced  to  silence,  a  prayer  in  French,  in  which  slie 
begged  of  God  to  pardon  her  sins,  declared  that  slie  for- 
gave her  enemies,  and  protested  that  she  was  innocent  of 
ever  consenting,  in  wish  or  deed,  to  the  death  of  her  Eng- 
lish sister.  She  then  prayed  in  English  for  Christ's 
atflicted  church,  for  her  son  James,  and  for  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, and  in  conclusion,  holding  up  the  crucifix,  exclaimed, 
"  As  thy  arms,  0  God,  were  stretched  out  upon  the  cross, 
so  receive  me  into  the  arms  of  thy  mercy,  and  forgive 
my  sins ! " 

AVhen  her  maids,  bathed  in  tears,  began  to  disrobe  their 
mistress,  the  executioners,  fearing  the  loss  of  their  usual 
perquisites,  hastily  interfered.  The  queen  renionstrated, 
but  instantly  submitted  to  their  rudeness,  observing  to  the 
earls,  with  a  smile,  that  she  was  not  accustomed  to  employ 
such  grooms,  or  to  undress  in  the  presence  of  so  numerous 
a  company. 

Her  servants,  at  the  sight  of  their  sovereign  in  tliis 
lamentable  state,  could  not  suppress  their  feelings ;  but 
Mary,  putting  her  finger  to  her  lips,  commanded  silence, 
gave  them  her  blessing,  and  solicited  their  prayers.  She 
then  seated  Jierself  again.  Kennedy,  taking  from  her  a 
handkercliief  edged  with  gold,  ]Mnned  it  over  her  eyes ; 
the  executionei-s,  holding  lier  by  tlie  arms  led  her  to  the 
block ;  and  the  queen,  kneeling  down,  said  i-epeatedly, 
with  a  firm  voice,  "  Into  thy  hands,  O  Lord,  I  commend 
my  st.lilf  " 


248  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

But  the  sobs  and  gi-oans  of  the  spectatoi-s  disconcerted 
the  headsman.  He  trembled,  missed  his  aim,  and  inflicted 
a  deep  wound  in  the  lower  part  of  the  skull.  The  queen 
remained  motionless ;  and  at  the  third  stroke  her  liead 
was  severed  from  her  body.  When  tlie  executioner  held 
it  up,  the  muscles  of  the  face  were  so  strongly  convulsed, 
that  the  features  could  not  be  recognized.  He  cried  as 
usual,  "  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth." 

"  So  perish  all  her  enemies ! "  subjoined  the  Dean  of 
Peterborough. 

"  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  the  gospel ! "  exclaimed, 
in  a  still  louder  tone,  tlie  fanatical  Earl  of  Kent. 

Not  a  voice  was  heard  to  cry  amen.  Party  feeling  was 
absorbed  iu  admiration  and  pity. 


XLVIII.— THE  TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS. 

MACAULAY. 

This  descriptton  of  the  trial  of  Wan«n  Haattogs  i«  from  the  revieir  of  Gleig's  "  Life 
of  Hastings,"  in  the  "  Edinbui:^  Review."  Hatttinga  waa  goveroor-general  of  India 
fttHn  1774  to  1785 ;  and  on  his  return  to  England  was  impeached  by  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  tried  by  the  Hoose  of  Lords,  for  numerous  acta  of  injustice  and  op- 
pressioa  The  trial  began  in  178S,  and  dragged  on  its  stow  length  till  1795.  when  he 
was  finally  acquitted.  The  judgments  of  men  entitled  to  respect  are  still  divided  as 
to  the  amount  of  blame  to  be  attached  to  Hastings.  He  was  a  man  of  great  abilities, 
but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  often  unscrupulous  in  his  conduct,  and  cruel 
in  his  government  He  constantly  acted  upon  the  dangerous  doctrine,  that  a  good 
end  justifies  the  use  of  any  means  to  attain  it  He  was  nearly  ruined  by  the  expenses 
of  his  trial,  which  are  said  to  have  amounted  to  neariy  four  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars. 

THE  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It  was  the  great 
hall  of  William  Rufus;*  the  hall  whicli  had  resound- 
ed with  acclamations  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings ; 
the  haU  wliich  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon, 

•  Westminster  Hall  was  built  by  William  Rufus,  for  a  banqueting  hall. 
t 


THE  TRIAL  OF  fVARRKN  HASTINGS.  249 

and  the  just'ftbsolution  of  Somers;  the  hall  where  the 
eltxiuence  of  Straflbrd  had  for  a  moment  aNved  and  melted 
a  victorious  party  inflamed  with  just  resentment;  the 
hall  where  Charles  had  confronted  the  higli  court  of 
justice,  with  the  placid  courage  that  has  half  redeemed 
his  fame. 

Neitlier  military  nor  civil  pomp  were  wanting.  The 
avenues  were  lined  with  grenadiers.  The  streets  were 
kept  clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in  gold  and 
ermine,  were  marshalled  by  hejalds  under  the  garter 
king-at-arms.  The  judges,  in  their  vestments  of  state 
attended  to  give  advice  on  points  of  law.  >  Near  a  hun- 
dred and  seventy  lords,  three  fourths  of  the  upper  house, 
as  the  upper  house  tlieu  was,  walked  in  solemn  order 
from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tribunal.  '  The 
junior  baron  present  led  the  way,  —  Geoi-ge  Eliott,  Lord 
Keathfield,  recently  ennobled  for  liis  memorable  defence 
of  Gibraltar  against  the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and 
Spain.  The  long  procession  was  closed  by  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  earl  marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great  dignita- 
ries, and  by  the  brothers  and  the  sons  of  the  king.  Last 
of  all  came  the  Prince  of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine 
person  and  noble  bearing. 

The  gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  The  long 
galleries  were  crowded  by  an  audience  such  as  has  rarely 
e.xcited  the  fears  or  the  emulation  of  an  orator.  There 
were  gathered  together,  from  all  parts  of  a  gi'eat,  free, 
enlightened,  and  prosperous  empire,  grace  and  female 
loveliness,  wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  every 
science  and  of  every  art. 

There  were  seated  round  the  queen  the  fair-haired 
young  daughtei's  of  the  house  of  JJrunswick.  There  the 
amlinssadors  of  great  kings  and   commonwealths   gazed 


250  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

with  admiration  on  a  spectacle  which  no  other  country 
in  the  world  could  present.  There  Siddons,  in  the  prime 
of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked  with  emotion  on  a  scene 
sui-passing  all  the  imitations  of  the  stage.  There  the  his- 
torian of  the  Roman  Empire  *  thought  of  the  days  when 
Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and 
when,  before  a  senate  that  still  retained  some  show  of 
freedom,  Tacitus  thundered  against  the  oppressor  of 
Afiica. 

?  There  were  seen,  side  by  side,  the  greatest  scholar  and 
the  greatest  painter  of  the  age.  The  specUcle  had  allured 
Reynolds  from  that  easel  which  has  preserved  to  us  the 
thoughtful  foreheads  of  so  many  writers  and  statesmen, 
and  the  sweet  smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons..  It  had 
induced  Parr  f  to  suspend  his  lalwrs  in  that  dark  and 
profjjuud  mine  from  which  he  had  extracted  a  vast  treas- 
ure of  erudition,  a  ti*easure  too  often  buried  in  the  earth, 
too  often  paraded  with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostenta- 
tion, but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splendid. 

There  appeared  the  volu^uous  charms  of  herj  to  whom 
the  heir  of  the  throne  had  in  secret  plighted  his  faith. 
There,  too,  was  she,§  the  beautiful  mother  of  a  beautiful 
race,  the  St.  Cecilia,  whose  delicate  features,  lighted  up 
by  love  and  music,  ai*t  has  rescued  from  the  common 
decay.  There  were  the  members  of  that  brilliant  society 
which  quoted,  criticised,  and  exchanged  rep^tees,  under 
the  rich  peacock  hangings  of  Mrs.  IMontague.     And  there 

•  GiblK)n. 

t  Samuel  Parr,  a  clei^gynian  and  man  of  learning,  but  hanlly  the  "  greatest 
scholar  of  the  age." 

t  Mrs.  Fitzherl)ert,  whom  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  supposed  to  have  secretly 
niarrieil. 

§  The  first  wife  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  a  woman  remarkable  for 
beauty  and  uiiudcal  genius,  whom  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  hati  painted  as  St. 
Cecilia. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS.  251 

the  ladies,  wliose  lips,  more  persuasive  than  those  of  Fox 
himself,  had  carried  the  Westminster  election  against 
palace  and  treasury,  shone  round  Georgiana,  Duchess  of 
Devonshire. 

The  sergeants  made  proclamation.  Hastings  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee.  The  culprit  was  indeed 
not  unworthy  of  that  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an 
extensive  and  populous  country,  had  matle  laws  and  trea- 
ties, had  sent  forth  aimies,  had  set  up  and  pulled  down 
princes,  v  And  in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne  himself 
that  all  had  feared  him,  tliat  most  had  loved  him,  and 
that  hatred  itself  could  deny  Iiim  no  title  to  glory,  except 
virtue. 

He  looked  like  a  great  man,  and  not  like  a  bad  man. 
A  person  small  and  emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity  from 
a  carriage  which,  while  it  indicated  deference  to  the  court^ 
indicated  also  liabitual  self-possession  and  self-respect,  a 
high  and  intellectual  forehead,  a  brow  pensive,  but  not 
gloomy,  a  mouth  of  inflexible  decision,  a  face  pale  and 
worn,  but  serene,- —  such  was  the  aspect  with  which  the 
great  procoiisul  presented  himself  to  his  judges. 

The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings  were  first  read. 
Tlie  ceremony  occupied  two  whole  days,  and  was  rendered' 
less  tedious  that  it  would  otherwise  have  been,  by  the 
silver  voice  and  just  emphasis  of  Cowper,  the  clerk  of  the 
court,  a  near  relation  of  tlie  amiable  poet. 

On  tlie  third  day,  Burke  rose.  Four  sittings  were  occu- 
pied by  his  opening  speech,  which  was  intended  to  be  a 
general  introduction  to  all  the  charges.  With  an  exuber- 
ance of  thought  and  a  splendor  of  diction  which  more 
tlian  satisfied  the  highly  raised  expectation  of  the  audi- 
ence, he  described  the  character  and  institutions  of  the 
natives  of  India,  recounted  the  circumstances  in  which 


252  THE  SIXTH  READER 

the  Asiatic  empire  of  Britain  had  originated,  and  set  forth 
the  constitution  of  the  company,  and  of  the  English  pres- 
idencies. 

Having  thus  attempted  to  communicate  to  his  hearers 
an  idea  of  Eastern  society  as  vivid  as  that  which  existed 
in  his  own  mind,  he  proceeded  to  arraign  the  administra- 
tion of  Hastings,  as  systematically  conducted  in  defiance 
of  morality  and  public  law.  The  energy  and  pathos  of 
the  great  orator  extorted  expressions  of  unwonted  admira- 
tion from  the  stem  and  hostile  chancellor,*  and,  for  a 
moment,  seemed  to  pierce  even  the  resolute  heart  of  the 
defendant.  rThe  ladies  in  the  galleries,  unaccustomed  to 
such  display?  of  eloquence,  excited  by  the  solemnity  of 
the  occasion,  and  perhaps  not  unwilling  to  display  their 
taste  and  sensibility,  were  in  a  state  of  uncontrollable 
emotion.  Handkerchiefs  were  pulled  out ;  smelling-bot- 
tles were  handed  round ;  hysterical  sobs  and  screams  were 
heard ;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  carried  out  in  a  fit. 

At  length  the  orator  concluded.  Eaising  his  voice  till 
the  old  arches  of  Irish  oak  resounded,  "  Therefore,"  said 
he,  "  hath  it  with  all  confidence  been  ordered  by  the  Com- 
mons of  Great  Britain,  that  I  impeach  Warren  Hastings 
of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors.  I  impeach  him  in  the 
name  of  the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust 
he  has  betrayed.  I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 
English  nation,  whose  ancient  honor  he  has  sullied.  I 
impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose 
rights  he  has  trodden  under  foot,  and  w^hose  country  he 
has  turned  into  a  desert.  Lastly,  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  in  the  name  of  both  sexes,  in  the  name  of 
every  age,  in  the  name  of  every  rank,  I  impeach  the  com- 
mon enemy  and  oppressor  of  alL" 

♦  Lord  Thurlow,  a  stern,  rough  man,  and  friendly  to  Hastings. 


CJIAJILES  aUMNER,  253 

XLTX.  — CHARLES   SUMNER 

JOHN  O.  WHITTIER. 

Thk  following  U  a  portion  of  a  poem  written  by  Mr.  Whittier  and  read  at  the 
legislative  commemoration  of  Charles  Sumner  at  Boston,  June  9,  1874.  "  Mother 
State  **  refers  to  Maiisachusetta,  "  Aubum'a  Field  of  Ood  "  to  the  cemetery  of  Mount 
Aubuni. 

"  I  am  not  one  who  has  disgraced  beauty  of  sentiment  by  deformity  of  conduct, 
or  the  maxims  of  a  fireman  by  the  actions  of  a  slave ;  but.  by  the  grace  of  God,  I 
have  kept  my  life  unsullied."  —  Milton's  Ik/enct  oftKt  People  of  England. 

O  MOTHER  State  !  the  winds  of  March 
Blew  chill  o'er  Auburn's  Field  of  God, 
Where,  slow,  beneath  a  leaden  arch 
Of  ^ky,  tliy  niouniing  children  trod. 

And  now,  with  all  thy  woods  in  leaf, 
Thy  fields  in  flower,  beside  thy  dead 

Thou  sittest,  in  thy  robes  of  grief, 
A  Rachel  yet  uncomforted  ! 

And  once  again  the  organ  swells, 
Once  more  the  flag  is  half-way  hung, 

And  yet  again  the  mournful  bells 
In  all  thy  steeple-towers  ate  rung. 

No  trumpet  sounded  in  his  ear, 

He  saw  not  Sinai's  cloud  and  flame. 

But  never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  duty  came. , 

God  said  :  "  Break  thou  these  yokes ;  undo 

These  heavy  burdens,     I  onlain 
A  work  io  last  thy  wliolo  life  through, 

A  ministry  of  strife  and  pain. 


254  Tiu:  SIXTH  header. 

"  Forego  tliy  <1  roams  of  lettered  case, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

I'lic  lights  nl"  man  are  more  than  th. ■>.■.'' 
lie  heard,  and  answer*  <]  :  •>  Here  am  I  ■  " 

He  set  his  face  against  the  blast, 
His  feet  against  the  flinty  shard,* 

Till  the  hard  service  grew,  at  last, 
Its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

Beyond  the  dust  and  smoke  he  saw 
The  sheaves  of  freedom's  large  increase, 

The  holy  fanes  of  equal  law, 
The  New  Jerusalem  of  peace. 

The  first  to  smite,  the  first  u>  .].<..»  , 
When  once  the  hostile  ensigns  fell, 

He  stretched  out  liands  of  generous  care 
To  lift  the  foe  he  fought  so  well. 

For  there  was  nothing  base  or  small 
Or  craven  in  his  soul's  broad  plan  ; 

Forgiving  all  things  personal, 
He  hated  oul}'  wrong  to  man^ 

Tin  ..LI  tratlitions  of  his  State, 

The  memories  of  her  great  and  good, 
Took  from  his  life  a  fresher  date, 

And  in  liim>.  h'  <  ni!»«Mlied  stood. 

If  than  Iiome's  tribunes  statelier 

He  wore  his  senatorial  ri'lu', 
His  lofty  port  was  all  for  her, 

The  one  dear  spot  on  all  the  globe. 

*  A  fi-agrnent  of  aiiy  brittle  suljslance. 


CHARLES  SUMNER.  255 

Proud  was  ho  1    If  his  presence  kept 

Its  grandeur  whereso'er  he  trod,    ' 
As  if  from  Tlutarch's  gallery  stepped 

The  hero  and  the  demigod, 

None  failed,  at  least,  to  reach  his  ear, 

Nor  want  nor  woe  appealed  in  vain  ; 
The  homesick  soldier  knew  his  cheer, 

And  blessed  him  from  his  ward  of  pain. 

He  cherished,  void  of  selfish  ends. 

The  social  courtesies  that  bless 
And  sweeten  life,  and  loved  his  friends 

With  most  unworldly  tenderness.^. 

His  state-craft  was  the  Golden  Rule ; 

His  right  of  vote  a  sacred  trust ; 
Clear,  over  threat  and  ridicule, 

All  heard  his  challenge,  "  Is  it  just  1 " 

Long  shall  the  good  State's  annals  tell, 
Her  children's  children  long  be  taught, 

How,  praised  or  blamed,  he  guarded  well 
The  trust  he  neither  shunned  nor  sought. 

The  lifted  sword  above  her  shield 

With  jealous  care  shall  guard  his  fame ; 

The  pine-tree  on  her  ancient  field 

To  all  the  winds  shall  speak  his  name. 

0  State,  so  passing  rich  before, 

Who  now  shall  doubt  thy  highest  claim  ] 

The  world  that  counts  thy  jewels  o'er 
Shall  longest  pause  at  Sumuer's  name. 


25G  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

L  —  JUNR 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

AND  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 
Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune. 
And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look  or  whether  we  listen, 
"We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might. 
An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light. 
Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 
Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green. 
The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there 's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace : 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 
Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 
With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  1 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 
And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer 
Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay. 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 


JUNE.  257 

No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 

*T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 

\Ve  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 

We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 

That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear 

That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near. 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing. 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky. 

That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 

And  ii*  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 

For  otlier  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 

And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer. 

Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year. 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 

Everything  is  happy  now. 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 

*T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 

As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

1'  is  the  natural  way  of  living  : 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  1 

In  the  unscarrefl  heaven  they  leave  no  wake. 

And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrows  and  ache ; 

The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 

Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 

What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 

Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  % 


258  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

LL— EULOGY  ON  O'CONNELL. 

W.  EL  SEWARD. 

William  IIeicrt  Sewako  was  born  In  Florida,  New  York,  May  16,  1801 ;  was 
graduated  at  Union  Ck>llege  In  1819,  and  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1822.  lie  died  at 
Auburn,  New  Yoric,  October  10,  1872.  Withoat  neglecting  bis  professional  duties, 
he  eariy  engaged  in  politics,  and  in  1838  was  chosen  governor  of  New  York  by  the 
Whigs,  and  was  re-elected  in  1846.  In  February,  1849,  he  was  chosen  to  the  Senate 
of  the  United  States,  and  continued  a  meuilier  of  that  body  till  the  election  of 
President  Lincoln,  when  he  be<'aine  a  niemlier  of  his  Cabinet  as  Secretary  of  State. 
During  his  career  in  the  Senate  he  was  retnaricable  for  the  ability  and  consistency 
witli  which  he  maintained  the  itulicy  and  principles  of  the  antislavery  party,  but  ho 
by  no  means  confined  his  attention  to  this  subject,  but  spoke  upon  a  variety  of  ques- 
tions connected  with  the  commercial  and  industrial  relations  of  the  country.  He  was 
a  man  of  patient  and  persevering  industry,  and  his  speeches,  which  were  always  care- 
fully pre[iarcd,  are  honorably  distinguished  for  their  decorum  of  tone  and  their  great 
literary  merit  His  writings  have  been  published  in  four  octavo  volumes,  with  a 
biognipliical  memoir  and  historical  notes. 

The  following  extracts  are  fh>m  a  eiUogy  delivered  before  the  Irish  citizens  of  New 
York,  upon  tlte  life  and  character  of  Daniel  O'Connell,  the  distinguished  champion 
of  the  lilierties  of  Ireland.  This  was  one  of  his  most  |K>werfUl  efforts,  full  of  elo- 
quent allusions,  hutoric  refcreDces,  and  touches  of  tender  pathos  and  sorrow. 

THERE  is  sad  news  from  Genoa,  An  aged  and  weary 
pilgrim,  who  can  travel  no  farther,  passes  beneath 
the  gate  of  one  of  her  ancient  palaces,  saying,  with  pious 
resignation,  as  he  enters  its  silent  chambers,  "  Well,  it  is 
God's  will  that  I  shall  never  see  Rome.  I  am  disap- 
pointed, but  I  am  ready  to  die." 

The  "  superb,"  though  fading  queen  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean holds  anxious  watch  through  ten  long  days  over 
that  majestic  stranger's  wasting  frame.  And  now  death 
is  there,  —  the  Liberator  of  Ireland  has  sunk  to  rest  in 
the  cradle  of  Columbus. 

Coincidence  beautiful  and  most  sublime !  It  was  the 
very  day  set  apart  by  the  elder  daughter  of  the  Church 
for  prayer  and  sacrifice  throughout  the  world  for  the 
children  of  the  sacred  island,  perishing  by  famine  and 
pestilence  in  their  houses  and  in  their  native  fields,  and 


EULOGY  ON  aCONNELL.  259 

on  tbeir  crowded  paths  of  exile,  on  the  sea  and  in  the 
havens,  and  on  the  lakes,  and  along  tlie  rivere  of  this  far- 
distant  land.  The  chimes  rung  out  by  pity  for  his  coun- 
trymen were  O'Conuell's  fitting  knell ;  his  soul  went 
forth  on  clouds  of  incense  that  rose  from  altars  of  Chris- 
tian charity ;  and  the  mournful  anthems  which  recited 
the  faith,  and  the  virtue,  and  the  endurance  of  Ireland 
were  his  becoming  requiem. 

But  has  not  O'Connell  done  more  tlian  enough  for 
fame  ?  On  the  lofty  brow  of  Monticello,  under  a  gi*een 
old  oak,  is  a  block  of  gmnite,  and  underneath  are  the 
ashes  of  Jeffei-sou.  Read  the  epitaph,  —  it  is  the  sage's 
claim  to  immortality :  "  Author  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  and  of  the  Statute  for  Religious  Liberty." 

Stop  now  and  write  an  epitaph  for  Daniel  O'Conuelh 
"  He  gave  liberty  of  conscience  to  Europe,  and  renewed 
the  revolutions  of  the  kingdoms  towards  universal  free- 
dom, wliich  began  in  America  and  had  been  arrested  by 
the  anarcliy  of  France." 

Let  the  statesmen  of  the  age  read  that  epitaph  and  be 
Ijumble.  Let  tlie  kings  and  aristocracies  of  the  earth 
read  it  and  tremble. 

Who  lias  ever  accomplished  so  much  for  human  free- 
dom with  means  so  feeble  ?  Who  but  he  has  ever  given 
liberty  to  a  people  by  the  mere  utterance  of  his  voice, 
without  an  army,  a  navy,  or  revenues,  —  without  a  sword, 
a  spear,  or  even  a  shield  ? 

Who  but  he  ever  subverted  tyranny,  and  saved  the 
lives  of  the  oppressed,  and  yet  spared  the  oppressor? 

Who  but  he  ever  detached  from  a  venerable  constitu- 
tion a  column  of  aristocracy,  dashed  it  to  the  earth,  and 
yet  left  the  ancient  fabric  stronger  and  moi-e  beautiful 
than  before  ? 


260  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Who  but  he  has  ever  lifted  up  seven  millions  of  people 
from  the  debasement  of  ages,  to  the  dignity  of  freedom, 
without  exacting  an  ounce  of  gold,  or  wasting  the  blood 
of  one  human  heart  ? 

Whose  voice  yet  lingers  like  O'Connell's  in  the  ear  of 
tyrants,  making  them  sink  with  fear  of  change ;  and  in 
the  ear  of  the  most  degraded  slaves  on  earth,  awaking 
hopes  of  freedom  ? 

Who  befoi-e  liim  has  brought  the  schismatics  of  two 
centuries  together,  conciliating  them  at  the  altar  of  uni- 
versal liberty  ?  Who  but  he  ever  brought  Papal  Rome 
and  Protestant  America  to  bum  incense  together? 

It  was  O'Connell's  mission  to  teach  mankind  that  Lib- 
erty was  not  estranged  from  Christianity,  as  was  pro- 
claimed by  revolutionary  France ;  that  she  was  not 
divorced  from  law  and  public  order ;  that  she  was  not 
a  demon  like  Moloch,  requiring  to  be  propitiated  with  the 
blood  of  human  sacrifice ;  that  democracy  is  the  daughter 
of  peace,  and,  like  true  religion,  worketh  by  love. 

I  see  in  Catholic  emancipation,  and  in  the  repeal  of 
the  act  of  union  between  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  only 
incidents  of  an  all-pervading  phenomenon,  —  a  phenome- 
non of  mighty  interest,  but  not  portentous  of  eviL  It  is 
the  universal  dissolution  of  monarchical  and  aristocratical 
governments,  and  the  establishment  of  pure  democracies 
in  their  place. 

I  know  this  change  must  come,  for  even  the  menaced 
governments  feel  and  confess  it.  I  know  that  it  will  be 
resisted,  for  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  power  to  relax.  It 
is  a  fearful  inquiry,  How  shall  that  change  be  passed  ? 
Shall  there  never  be  an  end  to  devastation  and  carnage  ? 
Is  every  step  of  human  progress  in  the  future,  as  in  the 
past,  to  be  marked  by  blood  ? 


EULOGY  ON  aCONNELL.  261 

Must  the  nations  of  the  earth,  after  groaning  for  ages 
under  vicious  institutions  established  without  their  con- 
sent, wade  through  deeper  seas  to  reach  that  condition 
of  more  perfect  liberty  to  which  they  are  so  rapidly,  so 
irresistibly  impelled  ? 

Or  shall  they  be  able  to  change  their  forms  of  govem- 
ment  by  slow  and  measured  degrees,  without  entirely  or 
all  at  once  subverting  them,  and  from  time  to  time  to  re- 
pair their  ancient  constitutions  so  as  to  adapt  them  peace- 
fully to  the  progi*ess  of  the  age,  the  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
the  cultivation  of  virtue,  and  tlie  promotion  of  happiness  ? 

Wlien  that  crisis  shall  come,  the  colossal  fabric  of  the 
British  Empire  will  have  given  way  under  its  always 
accumulating  weight.  I  see  England,  then,  in  solitude 
and  in  declining  greatness,  as  Rome  was  when  her  prov- 
inces were  torn  away,  —  as  Spain  now  is  since  the  loss 
of  the  Indies.  I  see  Ireland,  invigorated  by  the  severe 
experience  of  a  long  though  peaceful  revolution,  extend- 
ing her  arms  east  and  west  in  fmternal  embrace  towards 
new  rising  states,  her  resources  restored  and  improved, 
her  people  prosperous  and  happy,  and  her  institutions 
i^'ain  shedding  the  lights  of  piety,  art,  and  freedom  over 
I  he  world. 

Come  forward,  then,  ye  nations  who  are  trembling 
between  the  dangers  of  anarchy  and  the  pressure  of  des- 
])otism,  and  hear  a  voice  that  addresses  tlie  Liberator 
of  Ireland  from  the  caverns  of  Silence  where  Prophecy 
ii  bom:  — 

"To  thee,  now  sainted  spirit, 
Patriarch  of  a  wide-spreading  family, 
Remotest  lands  and  unborn  times  shall  turn, 
Whether  they  wouhl  restore  or  build.     To  thee  ! 
As  one  who  rightly  taught  how  Z«!al  should  bum  ; 
As  one  who  drew  from  out  Faith's  holiest  urn 
The  purest  streams  of  patient  euei^." 


262  THE  SIXTH  READER. 


LIL  — HUBERT  AND   ARTHUR 

SHAKESPEARE. 

The  following  scene  U  from  "  King  John."  Arthur,  a  young  boy.  is  htwftd  heir  to 
the  crown  of  England,  which  has  been  usurped  by  his  uncle,  the  king,  who  employs 
Hubert  to  r'»t  out  his  nephew's  eyes. 

Prince  Arthur,  Hubert,  and  Attendants. 
ScEivB,  —  A  room  in  the  castle,  Northampton. 
Enter  Hubert  and  tvjo  Attendants. 

HUBERT.     Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  aiTas  :*  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth, 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  me, 
Fast  to  the  chair  :  l)e  heedful     Hence,  and  watch. 

IsT  Attendant.    I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 
Hub.    Uncleanly  scruples !     Fear  not  you  :  look  to  't. 

[Exeunt  ArrENDANTSt 
Young  lad,  come  forth ;  I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  Arthur. 

Arthur.   Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

HuR  Good  morrow,  Uttlr  iirinro 

Arth.    As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince)  as  may  be.  —  You  are  sad. 

Hub.    Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me  I 

Methinks  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet  1  remember  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night. 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom,  + 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 

•  Tapestry,  or  hangings,  for  rooms. 
t  Christeuing,  baptism. 


HJ'nKnT   AS'f   ARTHUiL  2G3 

I  shouKl  be  merr>'  Jis  the  day  is  long ; 

And  8o  I  would  bo  here,  but  that  I  doubt 

My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me : 

He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him.  * 

Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geoifrey's  son  1 

No,  iudeetl,  is 't  not ;  and  I  would  to  Heaven 

I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.    If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead  : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden,  and  despatch.     {Aside.) 

Arth.   Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?    You  look  pale  to-day : 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick. 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you  : 
1  warrant,  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hub.    His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom.  — 
Ilead  here,  young  Arthur.  (SJiawiruf  a  paper.) 

How  now,  foolish  rheum  !*    (Aside.) 
Turning  dispiteous  t  torture  out  of  door ! 
I  must  be  brief ;  lest  resolution  drop 
i)\\t  at  mine  eyes  in  tender  womanish  teai-s.  — 
Can  you  not  read  it  1     Is  it  not  fair  writ  1 

Arth.    Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect. 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hua    Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you  1 

Hua  And  I  will. 

Arth.    Have  you  the  heart  1     When  your  head  did  but  ache, 
1  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows 
( riie  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me), 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheered  up  the  heavy  time  ; 
.Saying,  What  l;uk  ynn  ?  and.  Where  lies  your  <^rn't  i 
•  Tears.  f  Uiijiitying,  cruel. 


264  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

Or,  What  good  love  may  I  perform  for  you  1 

Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still, 

And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you  : 

But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 

Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love, 

And  call  it  cunning  :  do,  an  if  you  will. 

If  Heaven  be  pleased  that  you  must  use  me  ill. 

Why,  then  you  must.  —  Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  % 

These  eyes,  that  nevet  did,  nor  never  shall, 

So  much  as  frown  on  you  1 

HuR  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  bum  them  out. 

Arth.   Ah,  none  but  in  this  iron  age  would  do  it ! 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-hot. 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mijie  innocence  : 
Kay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust. 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hammered  iron  1 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me, 
And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believed  him.      No  tongue  but  Hubert's  —  * 

HuR    Come  forth.    {Stamps.) 

Re-enter  Attendants,  toith  eordf  irons,  etc 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.    O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !     My  eyes  are  out, 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hub.    Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

Arth.    Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boisterous-rough  1 

*  This  line  has  been  read  variously.  We  give  it  as  it  is  printed  in  Charles 
Knight's  pictorial  edition.  "Arthur  begins  a  fresh  sentence,  which  is  inter- 
rupte<l  by  Hubert's  stamping.  He  is  about  to  say,  *  No  tongue  but  Hubert's 
would  have  made  me  believe  it.' " 


HUBERT  AND  ARTHUR.  265 

I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 

For  Heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  Ix;  bound  1 

Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away. 

And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb ; 

I  Mrill  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word. 

Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly ; 

Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you. 

Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.   Go,  stand  within ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

1st  Attend.    I  am  best  pleased  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.    Alas !     I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend  : 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart :  — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hua  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.   Is  there  no  remedy  1 

HuR  None  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.    0  Heaven  !  —  that  there  were  hut  a  mote  in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense  ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boisterous  there. 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hub.    Is  this  your  promise  1     Go  to ;  hold  your  tongue. 

Arth.    Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes  : 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue  ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes :  0,  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use  but  still  to  look  on  you  I 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrimient  is  cold. 
And  would  not  hami  nw. 

Hua  1  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arth.    No,  in  good  sooth  ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief,  — 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  used 


266  THE  S/ATJI   READER. 

In  undeserved  extremes  :  see  else  yourself; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  lieaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
And  strewed  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.    But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.    And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush, 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert ; 
Kay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  dog,  that  is  compelled  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  *  him  on. 
All  things  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong 
Deny  their  office  ;  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy  whicli  fierce  fire  and  iron  extends,  — 
Creatures  of  note  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Hub.    Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine  eyes 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes;t 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
AVith  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.    O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !  all  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace  :  no  more.     Adieu  ; 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  ; 
I  '11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure, 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  aU  the  world. 
Will  not  offend  thee. 

Arth.  O  Heaven  !  —  I  thank  you,  Hubert. 

Hub.    Silence  :  no  more.     Go  closely  in  with  me  : 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.  [Exeunt. 

•  Urge  or  set  hini  on.  t  Owns. 


If'ARREN'S  ADDRESS.  267 


LIII.  —  WARRENS   ADDRESS   BEFORE   THE 
BATTLE   OF   BUNKER    HILL. 

PIERPONT. 

STAND  !  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  1 
Will  ye  hope  for  greener  graves  % 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What 's  the  mercy  despots  feel ! 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 
Ask  it  —  ye  who  wiH 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ] 
Look  behind  you  !  they  're  afire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !  —  From  the  vale 
On  they  come  !  —  and  will  ye  quail  ] 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  !         ' 

In  tlie  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may,  —  and  die  vi^e  must : 

But,  0,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
iVs  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell ! 


26S  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

LIV.  — INCENTIVES   TO  DUTY. 

SUMNER. 

Cha&lu  SumrcR  wu  bom  in  Boston.  January  6,  1811,  and  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  College  in  1830.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1834,  and  in  1837  Tisited 
Europe,  where  he  remained  till  1840,  travelling  in  Italy,  Oerniany,  and  France,  and 
residing  nearly  a  year  in  England.  On  the  Fourth  of  July,  1845,  he  pronounced  be- 
fore the  municipal  authorities  of  Boston  an  oration  on  "The  True  Grandeur  of 
Nations,"  which  was  an  eloquent  argmnent  against  the  war-system  of  nations,  and  in 
favor  of  peaceful  arbitration  in  the  settlement  of  international  questions.  This 
oration  was  widely  circulated,  both  in  America  and  England.  Having  become 
earnestly  engaged  in  the  antislavery  canse,  he  was  chosen  to  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States  fh>m  the  State  of  Massachusetts  in  the  winter  of  1851,  and  continued  a  mem- 
ber of  that  body  until  his  death,  March  11,  1874.  He  was  well  known  for  the  eneigy 
and  eloquence  with  which  he  has  assailed  Uie  institution  of  slavery.  His  works,  con- 
sisting of  speeches  and  occasional  addresses,  have  been  published  in  three  volumes, 
and  are  remarkable  for  fervid  eloquence  and  abundant  illustration. 

The  following  extract  is  the  conclusion  of  a  discourse  pronounced  before  the  Fhi- 
Beta-Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College,  at  their  anniversar}',  Aogost  27,  1846,  en- 
titled "The  Scholar,  the  Jurist,  the  Artist,  the  Philantliropist,"  and  in  commemo- 
ration of  four  deceased  members  of  the  society,  John  Pickering,  Joseph  Story, 
Washington  Allston,  and  William  Ellery  Chauning. 

THUS  have  T  attempted,  humbly  and  affectionately, 
to  bring  before  you  the  images  of  our  departed 
brothers,  while  I  dwelt  on  the  great  causes  in  which  their 
lives  were  made  manifest.  Servants  of  Knowledge,  of 
Justice,  of  Beauty,  of  Love,  they  have  ascended  to  the 
great  Source  of  Knowledge,  Justice,  Beauty,  Love.  Each 
of  our  brothers  is  removed ;  but  though  dead,  yet  speak- 
eth,  informing  our  imderstaudings,  strengthening  our  sense 
of  justice,  refining  our  tastes,  enlarging  our  sympathies. 
The  body  dies;  but  the  page  of  the  Scholar,  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  Jurist,  the  creation  of  the  Artist,  the 
beneficence  of  the  Philanthropist,  cannot  die.^ 

I  have  dwelt  upon  their  lives  and  characters,  less  in 
grief  for  what  we  have  lost,  than  in  gratitude  for  what 
we  so  long  possessed,  and  still  retain,  in  their  precious 
example.     In  proud  recollection  of  her  departed  children, 


INCENTIVES  TO  DUTY.  269 

Alma  Mater  might  well  exclaim,  in  those  touching  words 
of  paternal  grief,  that  slie  would  not  give  her  dead  sons 
for  any  living  sons  in  Christendom.  Pickering,  Story, 
Allston,  Channing  !  A  grand  Quaternion  !  Each,  in  his 
peculiar  sphere,  was  foremost  in  his  country.  Eacli 
might  have  said,  what  the  modesty  of  Demosthenes  did 
not  forbid  him  to  boast,  that,  through  him,^is  country 
had  been  crowned  abroad.  Their  labors  were  wide  as  the 
Commojiwealth  of  Letters,  Laws,  Art,  Humanity,  and  have 
found  acceptance  wherever  tliese  have  found  dominion. 

Their  lives,  which  overflow  with  instruction,  teach  one 
persuasive  lesscm,  wliich  speaks  alike  to  all  of  every  calling 
and  pursuit,  —  not  to  live  for  ourselves  alone.  They  lived 
for  Knowledge,  Justice,  Beauty,  Humanity.  Withdraw- 
ing from  the  strifes  of  the  world,  irom  the  allurements  of 
office,  and  the  rage  for  gain,  they  consecrated  themselves 
to  the  pursuit  of  excellence,  and  each,  in  his  own  voca- 
tion, to  beneficent  labor.  They  were  all  philanthroj^ists ; 
for  the  laboi-s  of  all  promoted  the  welfare  and  happiness 
of  mankind. 

In  the  contemplation  of  their  generous,  unselfish  lives, 
we  feel  the  insignificance  of  office  and  wealth,  which  men 
so  hotly  pursue.  What  is  office  ?  and  what  is  wealth  ? 
They  are  the  expressions  and  representatives  of  what  is 
present  and  fleeting  only,  investing  their  possessor,  per- 
lia])s,  with  -a  brief  and  local  regard.  But  let  ^lis  not  be 
exaggerated  ;  let  it  not  be  confounded  with  the  serene 
fame  which  is  the  reflection  of  important  labors  in  great 
causes.  The  street-lights,  within  the  circle  of  their 
nightly  scintillation,  seem  to  outshine  the  distant  stars, 
observed  of^en  in  all  lands  and  times;  but  gas-lamps 
are  not  to  be  mistaken  for  the  celestial  luminaries.     ^. 

Thev   who  Vwo.  onlv  for  wealth   ami  the  ihinus  of  this 


270  THE  SIXTH  READEH. 

world  follow  sliadows,  neglecting  the  great  realiLi(;s  which 
are  etenial  on  earth  and  in  heaven.  After  the  perturba- 
tions of  life,  all  its  accumulated  possessions  must  be 
resigned,  except  those  alone  which  have  been  devoted  to 
God  and  mankind.  What  we  do  for  ourselves,  perishes 
with  this  mortal  dust ;  what  we  do  for  otiiers,  lives  in  the 
grateful  hearts  of  all  who  feel  or  know  the  benefaction. 
Worms  may  destroy  the  body ;  but  they  cannot  consume 
such  a  fame.  It  is  fondly  cherished  on  earth,  and  never 
forgotten  in  heaven. 

The  selfish  struggles  of  the  crowd,  the  clamors  of  a 
false  patriotism,  the  suggestions  of  a  sordid  ambition, 
cannot  obscure  that  great  commanding  duty  which  en- 
joins perpetual  labor,  without  distinction  of  country,  of 
color,  or  of  race,  for  the  welfare  of  the  whole  Human 
Family.  In  this  mighty  Christian  cause,  Knowledge, 
Jurisp^nidence,  Art,  Philautliropy,  all  are  bles.sed  minis- 
ters. ^More  puissant  than  the  Sword,  they  shall  lead 
mankind  from  the  bondage  of  ecror  into  that  service 
which  is  perfect  freedom.  Our  departed  brothers  join  in 
summoning  you  to  tliis  gladsome  obedience.  Their  ex- 
amples speak  for  them.  Go  forth  into  the  many  man- 
sions of  the  house  of  life :  scholars  !  store  them  with 
learning ;  jurists !  build  them  with  justice  ;  artists !  adorn 
them  with  beauty ;  philanthropists !  let  them  resound 
with  love.  He  servants  of  truth,  each  in  his  vocation ; 
doers  of  the  word  and  not  hearers  only.  Be  sincere,  pure 
in  heart,  earnest,  enthusiastic.  A  virtuous  enthusiasm  is 
always  self-forgetful  and  noble.  It  is  the  only  inspijation 
now  vouchsafed  to  man.  Like  Pickering,  blend  humility 
with  learning.  Like  Story,  ascend  above  the  Present,  in 
place  and  time.  Like  Allston,  regard  fame  only  as  tlie 
eternal  shadow  of  exQellence.     like  Clianning,  bend  in 


INCENTIVES  TO  DUTY.  L'Tl 

adoration  befoi-e  tlie  right.  Cultivate  alike  the  wisdom 
of  experience  and  the  wisdom  of  hope.  Mindful  of  the 
Future,  do  not  neglect  the  Past ;  awed  by  the  majesty  of 
Antiquity,  turn  not  with  indifference  from  the^uture. 
True~wisdom  looks  to  the  ages  before  us,  as  well  as  behind 
us.  Like  the  Janus  of  the  Cagitol,  one  front  thoughtfully 
regards  the  Past,  rich  with  experience,  with  memories, 
with  the  priceless  traditions  of  virtue ;  the  other  is  ear- 
nestly directed  to  the  All  Hail  Hereafter,  richer  still  with 
its  transcendent  hopes  and  unfulfilled  prophecies. 

We  stand  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  age,  which  is 
preparing  to  recognize  new  influences.  The  ancient 
divinities  of  Violence  and  Wrong  are  retreating  to  their 
kindred  darkness. 

Tliere  's  a  fount  about  to  stream, 
There  *s  a  light  about  to  beam, 
There  's  a  warmth  about  to  glow, 
There 's  a  flower  about  to  blow  ; 
There 's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

Into  gray  ; 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action, 
•  Clear  the  way. 

Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen  ; 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men  ; 
Aid  it,  paper ;  aid  it,  tyi^e  ; 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe. 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play ; 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  way. 

Tlie  age  of  Chivalry  has  gone.  An  ai;c  ^>^  Humanity  has 
come.  The  horse,  whose  importance,  more  than  liuman, 
gave  the  name  to  that  early  period  of  gallantry  and  war, 
now  yields  his  foremost  place  toyman.     In  s'mvjti'^'  liiiii, 


272  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

in  promoting  liis  elevation,  in  contributing  to  his  welfare, 
in  doing  him  good,  there  are  fields  of  bloodless  triumph, 
nobler  far  than  any  in  which  the  bravest  knight  ever 
conquered.  Here  are  spaces  of  lab(jr,  wide  as  the  world, 
lofty  as  heaven.  Let  me  say,  then,  in  the  benison  once 
bestowed  upon  the  youthful  knight,  —  Scholars!  jurists ! 
artists  !  philanthropists !  heroes  of  a  Christian  age,  com- 
panions of  a  celestial  knighthood,  "Go  forth;  be  bi-ave, 
loyal,  and  successful ! " 

And  may  it  be  our  office  to-day  to  light  a  fresh  beacon- 
fire  on  the  venerable  walls  of  Harvard,  sacred  to  Truth, 
to  Christ,  and  the  Church,  —  to  TnTth  Immortal,  to  Christ 
the  Comforter,  to  the  Holy  Church  Universal.  Let  the 
flame  spread  from  steeple  to  steeple,  from  hill  to  hill, 
from  island  to  island,  from  continent  to  continent,  till 
the  long  lineage  of  fires  shall  illumine  all  the  nations  of 
the  earth ;  animating  them  to  the  holy  contests  of  Knowl- 
edge, Justice,  Beauty,  Love. 


LV.  — THE   WESTERN   POSTS. 

AME& 

FiSHFJt  Ames  wiu  bom  in  Dedhnni,  Massachusetts,  April  0,  1758;  and  died  in  the 
same  place,  July  4,  1808.  When  the  Federal  government  went  into  operation,  he  was 
elected  the  first  representative  of  his  district  in  Congress,  and  retained  his  seat  through 
the  whole  of  the  administration  of  Washington,  of  whose  policy  and  measures  he  was 
an  ardent  supporter.  He  was  a  very  eloquent  man,  remarkable  alike  or  his  readiness 
in  debate  and  the  finished  beauty  of  his  prepared  speeches.  He  was  a  copious  writer 
upon  political  subjects,  and  his  essays  are  remarkable  for  vigor  of  thought  and  bril- 
liant and  animated  style.  In  private  life  Mr.  Ames  was  one  of  tlie  most  amiable  and 
delightful  of  men,  and  possessed  of  rare  convei-sational  powers. 

The  speech  from  which  the  following  extract  is  taken  was  delivered  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  April  28,  1796,  in  support  of  a  resolution  in  favor  of  passing  the 
laws  necessary  for  carrying  into  effect  a  treaty  recently  negotiated  with  Great  Britain 
by  Mr.  Jay.  By  this  treaty,  Great  Britain  agreed  to  surrender  certain  posts  on  the 
western  frontier,  which  she  still  held.  Mr.  Ames  argued  that  the  possession  of  tliese 
posts  was  essential  for  the  preservation  of  the  Western  settlers  against  the  Indians. 


THE   WESTERN  POSTS.  27^'^ 

IF  any,  against  all  these  proofs,  should  maintain  that 
the  peace  with  the  Indians  will  be  stable  without  the 
posts,  to  them  I  will  urge  another  reply.  From  argu- 
ments calculated  to  produce  conviction,  I  will  appeal 
directly  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear  me,  and  ask 
whether  it  is  not  already  planted  there  ?  I  resort  espe- 
cially to  the  convictions  of  the  Western  gentlemen, 
whether,  supposing  no  posts  and  no  treaty,  the  settlers 
will  remain  in  security  ?  Can  they  take  it  upon  them 
to  say,  that  an  Indian  peace,  under  these  circumstances, 
will  prove  firm  ?  No,  sir,  it  will  not  be  peace,  but  a 
swoixl ;  it  will  be  no  better  than  a  lure  to  draw  victims 
within  the  reach  of  the  tomahawk. 

On  this  theme  my  emotions  are  unutterable.  If  I 
could  tind  words  for  them,  if  my  powers  bore  any  pro- 
portion to  my  zeal,  I  would  swell  my  voice  to  such  a 
note  of  remonstrance  it  should  reach  every  log-house 
beyond  the  moimtains.  I  would  say  to  the  inhabitants : 
Wake  from  your  false  security ;  your  cruel  dangers,  your 
more  cruel  apprehensions,  are  soon  to  be  renewed  ;  the 
wounds,  yet  unhealed,  are  to  be  torn  open  again  ;  in  the 
daytime,  your  path  through  the  woods  will  be  ambushed ; 
the  darkness  of  midniglit  will  glitter  with  the  blaze  of 
your  dwellings.  You  are  a  father,  —  the  blood  of  your 
sons  .shall  fatten  your  cornfield.  You  are  a  mother, — 
the  war-whoop  shall  wake  the  sleep  of  the  cradle. 

On  this  subject  you  need  not  suspect  any  deception  on 
your  feelings  ;  it  is  a  spectacle  of  horror  which  cannot  be 
overdmwn.  If  you  have  nature  in  your  hearts,  they  will 
speak  a  language,  compared  with  which  all  I  have  said  or 
can  say  will  be  poor  and  frigid. 

Will  it  be  whispered  that  tlie  treaty  has  made  me  a 
now  chanipinTi  for  tli<»  ]>rntor'ti<»n  of  the  fr""ii'"-^  ?     It  is 


274  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

known  that  my  voice,  as  well  as  vote,  has  been  uni- 
foi-mly  given  in  confonnity  with  the  ideas  I  have  ex- 
pressed. Protection  is  the  right  of  the  frontiers ;  it  is 
our  duty  to  give  it. 

Who  will  accuse  me  of  wandering  out  of  the  subject  ? 
Who  will  say  that  I  exaggerate  the  tendencies  of  our 
measures  ?  Will  any  one  answer  by  a  sneer  that  this 
is  all  idle  preaching  ?  Will  any  one  deny  that  we  are 
bound,  and  1  would  hope  to  good  purpose,  by  the  most 
solemn  sanctions  of  duty,  for  the  vote  we  give  ?  Are 
despots  alone  to  be  reproached  for  unfeeling  indifference 
to  the  tears  and  blood  of  their  subjects  ?  Are  republicans 
irresponsible  ?  Have  the  principles  on  which  you  gi'ound 
ther  eproach  upon  cabinets  and  kings  no  practical  influ- 
ence, no  binding  force  ?  Are  they  merely  themes  of  idle 
declamation,  introduced  to  decorate  the  morality  of  a 
newspaper  essay,  or  to  furnish  petty  topics  of  harangue 
from  the  windows  of  that  State  House  ?  I  trust  it  is 
neither  too  presumptuous  nor  too  late  to  ask,  Can  you 
put  the  dearest  interest  of  society  at  risk,  without  guilt 
and  without  remorse  ? 

It  is  vain  to  offer  as  an  excuse  that  public  men  are  not 
to  be  reproached  for  the  evils  that  may  happen  to  ensue 
from  their  measures.  This  is  very  true,  where  they  are 
unforeseen  or  inevitable.  Those  T  have  depicted  are  not 
unforeseen  ;  they  are  so  far  from  inevitable,  we  are  going 
t/O  bring  them  into  being  by  our  vote ;  we  choose  the  con- 
sequences, and  become  as  justly  an.swerable  for  them  as 
for  the  measure  that  we  know  will  produce  them. 

By  rejecting  the  posts,  we  light  the  savage  fires,  we 
bind  the  victims.  This  day  we  undertake  to  render  an 
account  to  the  widows  and  orphans  whom  our  decision 
will  make ;  to  the  wretches  that  will  be  roasted  at  the 


THE  FUTURE  OF  AMERWA.  275 

Stake ;  to  our  country ;  and  I  do  not  deem  it  too  serious 
to  say,  to  conscience  and  to  God.  We  are  answerable ; 
and  it'  duty  be  anything  more  than  a  word  of  iinpostui-e, 
if  conscience  be  not  a  bugl>ear,  we  are  preparing  to  make 
ourselves  as  wretched  as  our  country. 

There  is  no  mistake  in  tliis  case,  thei-e  can  be  none ; 
experience  has  already  been  the  prophet  of  events,  and 
the  cries  of  our  future  victims  have  already  reached  us. 
The  Western  inhabitants  are  not  a  silent  and  uncomplain- 
ing sacrihce.  The  voice  of  humanity  issues  from  the 
shade  of  the  wilderness ;  it  exclaims,  that  while  one 
hand  is  held  up  to  reject  this  treaty,  the  otlier  grasps  a 
tomaliawk.  It  summons  our  imagination  to  the  scenes 
that  will  open.  It  is  no  great  effort  of  the  imagination 
to  conceive  that  events  so  near  are  already  begun.  I  can 
fancy  that  I  listen  to  the  yells  of  savage  vengeance  and 
the  shrieks  of  torture ;  already  they  seem  to  sigh  in  the 
western  wind ;  already  they  mingle  with  every  echo  from 
the  mountains. 


LVI— THE   FUTURE   OF   AMERICA. 

WEBSTER. 

CoscLi*8iON  of  a  discoarae  delivered  at  Plymouth,  Massachusetts,   December  22, 
1820,  in  commeniontion  of  the  9mt  settlement  in  New  England. 

LET  US  not  forget  the  religious  cliaracter  of  our  origin. 
Our  fathers  were  brought  hither  by  their  higli  ven- 
eration for  the  Christian  religion.  They  journeyed  in  its 
liglit,  and  lalx>red  in  its  hope.  They  sought  to  incorpo- 
rate its  principles  with  the  elements  of  their  society,  and 
to  diffuse  its  influence  through  all  their  institutions,  civil, 


276  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

political,  and  literary.  Let  us  cherish  these  sentiments, 
and  extend  their  influence  stiU  more  widely ;  in  the  full 
conviction  that  that  is  the  happiest  society  which  partakes 
in  the  highest  degree  of  the  mild  and  peaceable  spirit  of 
Christianity. 

The  hours  of  this  day  are  rapidly  flying,  and  this  occa- 
sion will  soon  be  passed.  Neither  we  nor  our  children  can 
expect  to  behold  its  return.  They  are  in  the  distant  regions 
of  futurity,  they  exist  only  in  the  aU-creating  power  of 
God,  who  shall  stand  here,  a  hundred  years  hence,  to  trace, 
through  us,  their  descent  from  the  Pilgrims,  and  to  survey, 
as  we  have  now  surveyed,  the  progress  of  their  country 
during  the  lapse  of  a  century. 

We  would  anticipate  their  concurrence  with  us  in  our 
sentiments  of  deep  regard  for  our  common  ancestors.  We 
would  anticipate  and  partake  the  pleasure  with  which 
they  will:  then  recount  the  steps  of  New  England's  ad- 
vancement. On  the  morning  of  that  day,  although  it  will 
not  disturb  us  in  our  repose,  the  voice  of  acclamation  and 
gratitude,  commencing  on  the  rock  of  Plymouth,  shall  be 
transmitted  through  millions  of  the  sons  of  the  Pilgrims, 
till  it  lose  itself  in  the  murmurs  of  the  Pacific  seas. 

We  would  leave,  for  the  considei'ation  of  those  who  shall 
then  occupy  our  places,  some  proof  that  we  hold  the  bless- 
ings transmitted  from  our  fathers  in  just  estimation ;  some 
proof  of  our  attachment  to  the  cause  of  good  government, 
and  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  ;  some  proof  of  a  sincere 
and  ardent  desire  to  promote  everything  which  may  enlarge 
the  understandings  and  improve  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  when,  from  the  long  distance  of  a  hundred  years, 
they  shall  look  back  upon  us,  they  shall  know,  at  least, 
that  we  possessed  affections,  which,  running  backward,  and 
warming  with  gratitude  for  what  our  ancestors  have  done 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP.  277 

for  our  happiness,  run  forward  also  to  our  posterity,  and 
meet  them  with  cordial  salutation,  ere  yet  they  have 
arrived  on  the  shore  of  being. 

Advance,  then,  ye  future  generations !  We  would  hail 
you  as  you  rise  in  your  long  succession  to  fill  the  places 
whicli  we  now  fill,  and  to  taste  the  blessings  of  existence 
where  we  are  passing,  and  soon  shall  have  passed,  our 
human  duration.  We  bid  you  welcome  to  this  pleasant 
land  of  the  Fathers.  We  bid  you  welcome  to  the  health- 
ful skies  and  the  verdant  fields  of  New  England.  We 
greet  your  accession  to  the  great  inheritance  which  we 
have  enjoyed.  We  welcome  you  to  the  blessings  of  good 
government  and  religious  liberty.  We  welcome  you  to 
the  tjpasures  of  science  and  the  delights  of  learning.  We 
come  you  to  the  transcendent  sweets  of  domestic  life, 
to  the  happiness  of  kindred  and  parents  and  children.  We 
welcome  you  to  the  immeasurable  blessings  of  rational  ex- 
istence, the  immortal  hope  of  Christianity,  and  the  light 
of  everiasting  Truth ! 


LVIL  — THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP. 

LONGFELLOW. 

ALL  is  finished,  and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 
To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 
With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched. 
And  o'er  the  bay, 
Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  diglit, 
The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 


278  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide 

With  ceaseless  flow 

His  beai-d  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands. 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay. 

In  honor  of  her  marriage-day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

• 
Then  the  Master, 
With  a  gesture  of  command. 
Waved  his  hand  ; 
And  at  the  wonl. 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 
All  around  them  and  below. 
The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow. 
Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. ^ 
And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 
And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms. 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP.  279 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

Tliere  rose  a  shout,  proloiij<ed  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  0  bridegroom,  old  and  gray  ; 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms. 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms." 

How  beautiful  she  is  !  how  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  0  ship ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 

0  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity, 

Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 

Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 

Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ;  , 

And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 

Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  0  Ship  of  State ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears. 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years. 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
AVTiat  workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel. 
Who  made  each  mast  and  siiil  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  l^eat,. 


280  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  ancliors  of  thy  hope. 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock ; 

'T  is  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock  ; 

'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale. 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea. 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee  : 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears. 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears. 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  tihee. 


LVIII.  —  OVER  THE  RIVER 

MISS   PRIEST. 

Nancy  A.  W.  Priest,  author  of  the  following  beaatjful  and  touching  poem,  wa«  born 
in  Hinsdale,  New  Hampshire.  In  1847 ;  and  died  September  21, 1870.  She  received  no 
other  education  than  that  of  a  common  country  district  school,  and  was  for  several 
years  an  operative  in  a  factory  in  Wiuchendon,  Massachusetts.  It  was  during  the 
hour's  interval  from  the  toil  of  the  mill  that  she  composed  this  now  famous  poem, 
which  was  written  on  a  piece  of  brown  paper  as  she  sat  at  a  window  overlooking  the 
river.  It  was  laid  aside  and  forgotten  ;  but  a  year  later  it  was  accidentally  found,  and 
published  in  the  "Springfield  Republican,"  in  August,  1867,  when  the  author  was 
only  twenty  years  of  age.  It  appeared  over  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Liz^e  Lincoln." 
Miss  Priest  afterwards  became  Mrs.  A.  C.  Wakefield. 

OVER  the  river  they  beckon  to  me,  — 
Loved  ones  who  've  crossed  to  the  farther  side^^^ 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drowned  in  the  rushing  tide,. 
There  *s  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold. 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  > 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 
And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 


OVER  THE  RIVER,  281 

We  saw  not  the  angeb  who  met  him  there  ; 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me  I 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  —  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale,  — 

Darling  Minnie !     I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark  ; 
We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ', 
Over  the  river,  tlie  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me^ 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail,  — 
An«l  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  heart ; 

They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for  aye  j 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day  ; 
We  only  know  that  their  bark  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea ; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch  and  beckon  and  wait  for  me. 

Ajiil  1  >it  liiul  Uiink,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 


282  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boatman  pale. 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land  ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


LIX.  —  HYMN  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

COLERIDGE. 

HAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  moming-star 
In  his  steep  course  1     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Kave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines. 
How  silently  !     Around  thee,  and  above. 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge.     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity. 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody,  — 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it,  — 

Thou,  the  mean  while,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 


HYMy   /.V    THE   VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNL      283 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy ; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  en  rapt,  transfuserl, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  —  tliore, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs !  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  tiret  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale  ! 
0,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  wljen  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink,  — 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  da^vn 
Co-herald,  —  wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ] 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  1 
Who  made  thoe  p;m>nt  of  perpetual  streams'? 

And  you,  ye  live  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precijMtous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 

Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever  1 

NVho  gave  you  your  invulnemble  life, 

Ydur  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

rneeasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded,  —  and  the  silence  came,  — 

"Here  let  the  billows  ^jtiffou  imd  have  rest]" 

Ye  ice-falls  I  ye  tliat  fi-om  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 


284 


THE  SIXTH  READER, 


Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 


KOSSUTH.  285 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  1    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ]     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  1 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God !  sing,  ye  meadow  streams,  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-Uke  sounds ! 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunde^  God ! 

Ye  living  liowcrs  that  skiit  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  on  tlie  mountain  storm  ! 
Ye  liglitnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 


LX._  KOSSUTH. 

HORACE  MANN. 

Horace  Uahs  wm  born  in  Franklin,  Massachusetts,  May  4, 1796 ;  and  died  Aagiist 
2,  1859.  He  was  graduated  at  Brown  University  in  1819,  and  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1823,  and  continued  in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  first  at  Dedham,  and  then  at 
Boston,  for  the  next  fourteen  years.  He  was,  during  this  period,  almost  constantly 
a  member  of  the  Legislature,  and  for  two  years  President  of  tlie  Senate.  He  was  an 
earnest  supporter  of  all  legislative  measures  for  the  suppression  of  vice  and  crime, 
and  the  relief  of  human  suffering.  In  1837  he  was  chosen  secretary  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Bt)ard  of  Education,  and  for  several  years  devoted  himself  to  the  laliors  of 
this  arduous  post  with  characteristic  energy  and  enthusiasm.  By  his  writings,  his 
lectures,  his  corresjMndence,  and  his  personal  influence,  he  gave  a  great  impulse  to 
the  cause  of  education,  not  merely  in  Massachusetts,  but  all  over  the  country.  Ui>on 
the  death  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  1848,  Mr.  Mann  was  chosen  to  Congress  in  his 
place,  and  remained  a  member  of  the  House  of  Representatives  till  1852.  when  he  was 
chosen  president  of  Antioch  College.  Ohio,  where  he  remained  till  the  time  of  his 
death,  laboring  with  his  usual  leal  and  energy  in  the  cause  of  education  and  philan- 
thropy. While  in  Congress  he  was  distinguished  for  his  fer\'ent  antislavery  zeal.  He 
was  a  man  of  ardent  benevolence  and  great  force  of  character,  and  his  writings  are 
distinguished  for  fervid  eloquence  and  impassioned  i 


286  THE  aiXTU  READER. 

ON  the  banks  of  the  Danube  a  young  man  sprang,  at 
a  single  bound,  from  comparative  obscurity  to  uni- 
versal fame.  His  heroism  organized  armies.  His  genius 
created  resources.  He  abolished  the  factitious  order  of 
nobility,  but  his  exalted  soul  poured  the  celestial  ichor  * 
of  the  gods  through  ten  millions  of  peasant  hearts,  and 
made  them  truly  noble. 

Though  weak  in  all  but  the  energies  of  the  soul,  yet 
it  took  two  mighty  empires  to  break  down  his  power. 
When  he  sought  refuge  in  Turkey,  the  sympathies  of 
the  civilized  world  attended  his  exile.  He  was  invited 
to  our  shores.  He  came,  and  spoke  as  man  never  before 
spake. 

It  was  Byron's  wish  that  he  could  condense  all  the 
raging  elements  of  his  soul 

"  Into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  lightning." 

Kossuth  found  what  Byron  in  vain  prayed  for ;  for  all 
his  words  were  lightning :  not  bolts,  but  a  lambent  flame, 
which  he  poured  into  men's  hearts,  not  to  kill,  but  to 
animate  with  a  more  exalted  and  a  diviner  life. 

In  cities,  where  the  vast  population  went  forth  to  hail 
him ;  in  academic  halls,  where  the  cultivation  of  elo- 
quence and  knowledge  is  made  the  business  of  life ;  in 
those  great  gathering-places  where  the  rivers  of  people 
have  their  confluence,  —  he  was  addressed  by  the  most 
eloquent  men  whom  this  nation  of  oratoi-s  could  select. 
More  than  five  hundred  of  our  select  speakers  spoke  be- 
fore him  that  which  they  liad  laboriously  prepared  from 
history  and  embellished  from  the  poets,^with  severe  toil, 
by  the  long-trimmed  lamp. 

•  Pronounced  T'kor.    An  ethereal  fluid  that  supplied  the  place  of  blood  in 
the  arterial  circulation  of  the  ancient  gods. 


KOSSUTH.  287 

Save  in  two  or  three  peculiar  cases,  his  unprepared 
and  improvised  replies,  in  eloquence,  in  pathos,  in  dig- 
nity, in  exalted  sentiment,  excelled  them  all.  For  their 
most  profound  philosophy  he  gave  them  deeper  generali- 
zation; he  out-circuited  their  widest  ranges  of  thought, 
and  in  the  whole  sweep  of  the  horizon  revealed  glories 
they  hatl  never  seen ;  and  while  they  checked  their  ambi- 
tious flight  beneath  the  sun,  he  soared  into  the  empyrean 
and  br(jught  down,  for  the  guidance  of  men's  hearts  and 
deeds,  the  holy  light  that  shines  from  the  face  of  God. 
Though  all  their  splendors  were  gathered  to  a  focal  point, 
they  were  outshone  by  his  effulgence.  His  immortal 
theme  was  liberty.  Liberty  for  the  nations.  Liberty  for 
the  people. 

The  person  of  this  truly  noble  Hungarian  has  departed 
from  our  shores,  but  he  has  left  a  spirit  beliipd  him  that 
will  never  die.  He  has  scattered  seeds  of  liberty  and 
truth,  whose  flowers  and  fruit  will  become  honors  and 
glories  amamnthine.  I  jbrust  he  goes  to  mingle  in  sterner 
scenes ;  I  trust  he  goes  to  battle  for  the  right,  not  with 
the  tongue  and  pen  alone,  but  with  aU  the  weapons  that 
freedom  can  forge  and  wield. 

»  Before  the  Divine  government  I  bow  in  reverence  and 
adoration ;  bilt  it  tasks  all  my  philosophy  and  all  my 
religion  to  believe  that  the  despots  of  Europe  have  not 
exercised  their  irresponsible  and  cruel  tyrannies  too  long. 
It  seems  too  long  since  Charles  was  brought  to  the  axe 
and  Louis  to  the  guillotine.  Liberty,  humanity,  justice, 
demands  more  modem  instances. 

The  time  has  fully  come  when  the  despot,  not  the 
patriot,  should  feel  the  executioner's  steel  or  lead.  The 
time  has  fully  come  when,  if  the  oppressed  demand 
their  inalienable  and  Heaven-burn  rights  of   their  op- 


288  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

pressors,  and  this  demand  is  denied,  that  they  should  say, 
not  exactly  in  the  language  of  Patrick  Henry,  "  Give  me 
liberty,  or  give  me  death  " ;  that  was  noble  language  in  its 
day,  but  we  have  now  reached  an  advanced  stage  in 
human  developments,  and  the  time  has  fully  come  when 
the  oppressed,  if  their  rights  are  forcibly  denied  them, 
should  say  to  the  oppressor,  "  Give  me  liberty,  or  I  wiU 
give  you  death ! " 


LXI.-TRUE  GREATNESS. 

CHANNING. 

From  an  article  on  the  *'  Life  and  Character  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  originally  pub> 
lished  in  the  "  Christian  Examiner,"  in  1827. 

SUCH  was  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  But  some  will  say 
he  was  still  a  great  man.  This  we  mean  not  to  deny. 
But  we  would  have  it  understood,  that  there  are  various 
kinds  or  orders  of  greatness,  and  that  the  highest  did  not 
belong  to  Bonaparte. 

There  are  different  orders  ot  greatness.  Among  these, 
the  first  rank  is  unquestionably  due  to  moral  greatness,  or 
magnanimity ;  to  that  sublime  energy  by  which  the  soul, 
smitten  with  the  love  of  virtue,  binds  itself  indissolubly, 
for  life  and  for  death,  to  truth  and  duty ;  espouses  as  its 
own  the  interests  of  human  nature ;  scorns  all  meanness, 
and  defies  all  peril ;  hears  in  its  own  conscience  a  voice 
louder  than  threat^nings  and  thunders ;  withstands  all 
the  powers  of  the  universe  which  would  sever  it  from  the 
cause  of  freedom  and  religion ;  reposes  an  unfaltering 
trust  in  God  in  the  darkest  hour ;  and  is  ever  "  ready  to 
be  offered  up  "  on  the  altar  of  its  country  or  of  mankind. 

Of  this  moml  greatness,  which  throws  all  other  forms 


TUVE  GREATNESS,  289 

of  greatness  intx)  obscurity,  we  see  not  a  trace  in  Napo- 
leon. Thougli  clothed  with  the  power  of  a  God,  the 
thought  of  cousecratiug  himself  to  the  introduction  of  a 
new  and  higher  era,  to  the  exaltation  of  the  character 
and  condition  of  liis  race,  seems  never  to  have  dawned  on 
his  mind.  The  spirit  of  disinterestedness  and  self-sacrifice 
seems  not  to  have  waged  a  moment's  war  with  self-will 
and  ambition. 

His  ruling  passions,  indeed,  were  singularly  at  variance 
with  magnanimity.  Moral  greatness  has  too  much  sim- 
plicity, is  too  unostentatious,  too  self-subsistent,  and 
enters  into  others'  interests  with  too  much  heartiness,  to 
live  an  hour  for  what  Napoleon  always  lived,  —  to  make 
itself  the  theme  and  gaze  and  wonder  of  a  dazzled  world. 

Next  to  moral  comes  intellediml  greatness,  or  genius  in 
the  liighest  sense  of  that  word  ;  and  by  this  we  mean  that 
sublime  capacity  of  thought,  through  which  the  soul,  smit- 
ten with  the  love  of  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  essays  to 
comprehend  the  universe,  soars  into  the  heavens,  pene- 
trates the  earth,  penetrates  itself,  questions  the  past,  an- 
ticipates the  future,  traces  out  the  general  and  all  compre- 
hending laws  of  nature,  binds  together  by  innumerable 
affinities  and  relations  all  the  objects  of  its  knowledge, 
rises  from  the  finite  and  transient  to  the  infinite  and  tlie 
everlasting,  frames  to  itself,  from  its  own  fulness,  lovelier 
and  sublimer  forms  than  it  beholds,  discerns  the  harmo- 
nies between  the  world  within  and  the  world  without  us, 
and  finds  in  every  region  of  the  universe  types  and  inter- 
preters of  its  own  deep  mysteries  and  glorious  inspirations. 
This  is  the  greatness  which  belongs  to  philosophei*s  and 
to  the  master-spirits  in  poetry  and  the  fine  arts. 

Next  come.s  the  greatness  of  action ;  and  by  tliis  we 
mean  the  sublime  power  of  conceiving  bold  and  extensive 


290  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

plans ;  of  constructing  and  bringing  to  bear  on  a  mighty- 
object  a  complicated  machinery  of  means,  energies,  and 
arrangements,  and  of  accomplishing  great  outward  effects. 
To  this  head  belongs  the  greatness  of  Bonaparte,  and 
that  he  possessed  it,  we  need  not  prove,  and  none  will  be 
hardy  enougli  to  deny.  A  man  who  raised  himself  from 
obscurity  to  a  throne ;  who  changed  the  face  of  the  world ; 
who  made  himself  felt  through  powerful  and  civilized 
nations ;  who  sent  the  terror  of  his  name  across  seas  and 
oceans ;  whose  will  was  pronounced  and  feared  as  destiny ; 
whose  donatives  were  crowns ;  whose  antechamber  was 
thronged  by  submissive  princes;  who  broke  down  the 
awful  barrier  of  the  Alps,  and  made  them  a  highway ;  and 
whose  fame  was  spread  beyond  the  boundaries  of  civiliza- 
tion to  the  steppes  of  the  Cossack,  and  the  deserts  of  the 
Arab,  —  a  man  who  has  left  this  record  of  himself  in  his- 
tory has  taken  out  of  our  hands  the  question  whether  he 
shall  be  called  great.  All  must  concede  to  him  a  sublime 
power  of  action,  —  an  energy  equal  to  great  effects. 


LXIL  — THE  USES  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

SWAIN. 

The  following  extract  is  a  portion  of  a  sermon  of  striking  eloquence  and  beauty  by 
the  late  Rev.  Leonartl  Swain,  of  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  published  In  the  "  Biblio- 
theca  Sacm." 

THE  traveller  who  would  speak  of  his  experience  in 
foreign  lands  must  begin  with  the  sea.  God  has 
spread  this  vast  pavement  of  his  temple  between  the  hemi- 
spheres, so  that  he  who  sails  to  foreign  shores  must  pay  a 
double  tribute  to  the  Most  High ;  for  through  this  temple 


THE    USES   uF  THE  OCEAN.  291 

he  has  to  cany  his  anticipations  as  he  goes,  and  his 
memories  when  he  returns.  The  sea  speaks  for  God ;  and 
however  eager  the  tourist  may  be  to  reach  the  strand  that 
lies  before  him,  and  enter  upon  the  career  of  business  or 
pleasure  that  awaits  him,  he  nmst  check  his  impatience 
during  this  long  interval  of  approach,  and  listen  to  the 
voice  with  which  Jehovah  speaks  to  him  as,  horizon  after 
horizon,  he  moves  to  his  purpose  along  the  aisles  of  God's 
mighty  tabernacle  of  the  deep. 

It  is  a  common  thing,  in  speaking  of  the  sea,  to  call  it 
"  a  waste  of  waters."  But  this  is  a  mistake.  Instead  of 
being  an  encumbrance  or  a  superfluity,  the  sea  is  as  essen- 
tial to  the  life  of  the  world,  as  the  blood  is  to  the  life  of 
the  human  body,  t  Instead  of  being  a  waste  and  desert,  it 
keeps  the  earth  itself  from  becoming  a  waste  and  a  desert 
It  is  the  world's  fountain  of  life  and  health  and  beauty ; 
and  if  it  were  taken  away,  the  grass  would  perish  from 
the  mountains,  the  forests  would  crumble  on  the  hills,  the 
hars^ests  would  become  powder  on  the  plains,  the  conti- 
nent would  be  one  vast  Sahara  of  frosts  and  fire,  and 
the  solid  globe  itself,  scarred  and  blasted  on  every  side, 
would  swing  in  the  heavens,  silent  and  dead  as  on  the 
fii-st  morning  of  creation. 

Water  is  as  indispensable  to  all  life,  vegetable  or  ani- 
mil,  as  the  air  itself.  From  the  cedar  on  the  mountains 
t  J  the  lichen  that  clings  to  the  wall ;  from  the  elephant 
that  pastures  on  the  forests,  to  the  animalcule  that  floats 
in  the  sunbeam ;  from  the  leviathan  that  heaves  the  sea 
into  billows,  to  the  microscopic  creatures  that  swarm,  a 
million  in  a  single  foam-drop,  —  all  alike  depend  for  their 
existence  on  this  single  element  and  must  perish  if  it  be 
withdrawn. 

This  element  of  water  is  supplied  entirely  by  the  sea. 


292  TEE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  sea  is  the  great  inexhaustible  fountain  which  is  con- 
tinually pouring  up  into  the  sky  precisMy  as  many  streams, 
and  as  large,  as  all  the  rivers  of  the  world  are  pouring 
into  it 

The  sea  is  the  real  birthplace  of  the  clouds  and  the 
rivers,  and  out  of  it  come  all  the  rains  and  dews  of  heaven. 
Instead  of  being  a  waste  and  an  encumbrance,  therefore,  it 
is  a  vast  foimtain  of  fruitfulness,  and  the  nurse  and  mother 
of  all  the  living.  Out  of  its  mighty  breast  come  the  re- 
sources that  feed  and  support  the  population  of  the  world. 
Omnipresent  and  everywhere  alike  is  this  need  and  bless- 
ing of  the  sea.  It  is  felt  as  truly  in  the  centre  of  the  con- 
tinent,—  where,  it  may  be,  the  rude  inhabitant  never 
heard  of  the  ocean,  —  as  it  is  on  the  circumference  of  the 
wave-beaten  shore. 

^Me  are  surrounded,  every  moment,  by  the  presence  and 
bounty  of  the  sea.  It  looks  out  upon  us  from  every  violet 
in  our  garden-bed ;  from  every  spire  of  grass  that  drops 
upon  our  passing  feet  the  beaded  dew  of  the  morning; 
from  the  bending  grain  that  fills  the  arm  of  the  reaper ; 
from  bursting  presses,  and  from  barns  filled  with  plenty ; 
from  the  broad  foreheads  of  our  cattle  and  the  rosy  faces 
of  our  children ;  from  the  cool  dropping  well  at  our  door ; 
from  the  brook  that  murmurs  from  its  side;  and  from 
the  elm  or  spreading  maple  that  weaves  its  protecting 
branches  beneath  the  sun,  and  swings  its  breezy  shadow 
over  our  habitation4  / 

It  is  the  sea  that  feeds  us.  It  is  the  sea  that  clothes 
us.  It  cools  us  with  the  summer  cloud,  and  warms  us  with 
the  blazing  fires  of  winter.  We  make  wealth  for  ourselves 
and  for  our  children  out  of  its  rolling  waters,  though  we 
may  live  a  thousand  leagues  away  from  its  shore,  and  never 
have  looked  on  its  crested  beauty,  or  listened  to  its  eternal 


THE   USES  OF  THE  OCEAN.  293 

anthem.  Thus  the  sea,  though  it  bears  no  harvest  on  its 
bosom,  yet  sustains  all  the  harvests  of  the  world.  Though 
a  desert  itself,  it  makes  all  the  other  wildernesses  of  the 
earth  to  bud  and  blossom  as  the  rose.  Though  its  own 
watei-s  are  m  salt  and  wonnwood,  it  makes  the  clouds  of 
heaven  to  di-op  with  sweetness,  opens  springs  in  the  val- 
leys, and  rivera  among  the  hills,  and  fountains  in  all  dry 
places,  and  gives  drink  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth. 

The  sea  is  a  perpetual  source  of  health  to  the  world. 
Without  it  there  could  be  no  drainage  for  the  lands.  It 
is  the  scavenger  of  the  world.  Its  agency  is  omnipresent. 
Its  vigilance  is  omniscient.  Where  no  sanitary  committee 
could  ever  come,  where  no  police  could  ever  penetrate,  its 
myriad  eyes  are  searching,  and  its  million  hands  are  busy 
exploring  all  the  lurking-places  of  decay,  bearing  swiftly 
ofl'  the  dangerous  sediments  of  life,  and  laying  them  a 
thousand  miles  away  in  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep. 

The  sea  is  also  set  to  purify  the  atmosphere.  The 
winds,  whose  wings  are  heavy  and  whose  Sreath  is  sick 
with  the  malaria  of  the  lands  over  which  they  have  blown, 
are  sent  out  to  range  over  these  mighty  pastui-es  of  the 
deep,  to  plunge  and  play  with  its  roUing  billows,  and  dip 
their  pinions  over  and  over  in  its  healing  waters.  There 
they  rest  when  they  are  weary,  cradled  into  sleep  on  that 
vast  swinging  couch  of  the  ocean.  There  they  rouse  them- 
selves  when  they  are  refreshed,  and  lifting  its  waves  upon 
their  shouldei-s,  they  dash  it  into  spray,  and  hurl  it  back- 
wards and  forwards  through  a  thousand  leagues  of  sky^ 
Thus  tlieir  whole  substance  is  drenched,  Jind  bathed,  and 
washed,  and  winnowed,  and  sifted  through  and  through,  by 
this  glorious  baptism.  Thus  they  fill  their  mighty  lungs 
once  more  with  the  sweet  breath  of  ocean,  and,  striking 
their  wiiij^^s  fur  the  shore,  thcv  go  breiitlniit,'  health  ami 


294  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

vigor  along  all  the  fainting  hosts  that  wait  for  them  in 
mountain  and  forest  and  valley  and  plain,  till  the  whole 
drooping  continent  lifts  up  its  rejoicing  face,  and  mingles 
its  laughter  with  the  sea  that  has  waked  it  from  its 
fevered  sleep,  and  poured  its  tides  of  returning  life  through 
all  its  shrivelled  arteries. 

The  ocean  is  not  the  idle  creature  that  it  seems,  with 
its  vast  and  lazy  length  stretched  between  the  continents, 
with  its  huge  bulk  sleeping  along  the  shore,  or  tumbling 
in  aimless  fury  from  pole  to  pole.  It  is  a  mighty  giant, 
who,  leaving  his  oozy  bed,  comes  up  upon  the  land  to 
spend  his  strength  in  the  service  of  man.  »  He  there  allows 
his  captors  to  chain  him  in  prisons  of  stone  and  iron,  to 
bind  his  shoulders  to  the  wheel,  and  set  him  to  grind  the 
food  of  the  nations,  and  weave  the  garments  of  the  worid. 
The  mighty  shaft,  which  that  wheel  turns,  runs  out  into  all 
the  lands ;  and  geared  and  belted  to  that  centre  of  power, 
ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  clanking  engines  roll 
their  cylinders,  and  ply  their  hammers,  and  drive  their 
million  shuttles. 

Thus  the  sea  keeps  all  our  mills  and  factories  in  mo- 
tion. Thus  the  sea  spins  our  thread  and  weaves  our  cloth. 
It  is  the  sea  that  cuts  our  iron  bars  like  wax,  rolls  them 
out  into  proper  thinness,  or  piles  them  up  in  the  solid 
shaft  strong  enough  to  be  the  pivot  of  a  revolving  planet. 
It  is  the  sea  that  tunnels  the  mountains,  and  bores  the 
mine,  and  lifts  the  coal  from  its  sunless  depths,  and  the 
ore  .from  its  rocky  bed."^  It  is  the  sea  that  lays  the  iron 
track,  that  builds  the  iron  horse,  that  fills  his  nostrils 
with  fiery  breath,  and  sends  his  tireless  hoofs  thundering 
across  the  longitudes.  It  is  the  power  of  the  sea  that  is 
doing  for  man  all  those  mightiest  works  that  would  be  else 
impossible.     It  is  by  this  power  that  he  is  to  level  the 


GREECE,  IN  1809.  295 

mountains,  to  tame  the  wildernesses,  to  subdue  the  con- 
tinents, to  throw  his  pathways  around  the  globe,  and 
make  his  nearest  approaches  to  omnipi-esence  and  om- 
nipotence. 


LXIII.  -  GREECE,  IN   1809. 

BYRON. 

Gbobos  Gokdoh  Btbon.  Lord  Byroo,  was  born  in  London,  January  22,  1788 ;  and 
died  at  Missolonghi,  in  Greece,  April  19,  1824.  In  March,  1812,  he  published  the 
first  two  cantos  of  his  oplendid  poeni,  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  which  produced 
an  impression  upon  the  public  almost  without  precedent  in  English  literature,  and 
gained  him  the  very  highest  place  among  the  poets  of  the  day. 

Lord  Byron's  poetry  has.  In  an  intellectual  point  of  view,  some  great  and  enduring 
excellences.  In  description  and  in  the  expression  of  passion  he  is  unrivalled.  His 
poetry  abounds  with  passages  of  melting  tenderness  and  exquisite  sweetness,  which 
take  captive  and  bear  away  the  susceptible  heart.  His  wit,  too,  is  plaj'ful  and  bril- 
liant, and  his  sarcasm  venomous  and  blistering.  His  leading  characteristic  is  energy  : 
be  is  never  languid  or  tame ;  and  in  bis  highest  moods,  his  words  flash  and  bum  like 
lightning  fh>m  the  cloud,  and  hurry  the  reader  along  with  the  breathless  si)eed  of 
the  tempest. 

Much  of  Lord  Byron's  poetry  is  objectionable  in  a  moral  point  of  view.  Some  of 
it  ministers  nndisguisedly  to  the  evil  passions,  and  confounds  the  distinctions  be- 
tween right  and  wrong ;  and  still  more  of  it  is  false  and  morbid  in  its  tone,  and 
teaches,  directly  or  indirectly,  the  mischievous  and  irreligious  doctrine,  that  the 
unhappiness  of  men  is  just  in  proportion  to  their  intellectual  superiority. 

The  following  extract  is  flrom  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage."  Thermopylae  is  a 
narrow  pass  leading  ftwm  Thessaly  into  Southern  Greece,  where  I^eonidas  and  a 
small  band  of  Spartan  heroes,  resisting  an  immense  Persian  host,  were  all  slain.  The 
town  of  Spada.  or  Lacediemon,  was  upon  the  river  Eurotas.  Thrasybulus  was  an 
Athenian  general  who  overthrew  the  power  of  the  Thirty  Tyrants  in  Athens,  b.  c.  403. 
He  first  seiied  the  fortress  of  Phyle,  which  was  about  fifteen  miles  ftt>m  Athens. 
The  Helots  were  slaves  to  the  Spartans.  Colonna,  or  Colonni,  anciently  Sunium,  is  a 
promontory  forming  the  southern  extremity  of  Attica,  where  there  was  a  temple  to 
Minerva,  who  was  also  called  Tritonla.  Hymettus  and  Pentelicus  were  mounteins 
near  Athens,  Uie  former  famous  for  honey,  and  th*;  latter  for  marble.  The  modern 
name  of  Pentelicus  is  Mendeli.  Athena  was  a  name  by  which  the  Greeks  called 
Minerva,  the  literary  goddess  of  Athens. 

FAIR  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scattered  children  forth, 
And  long-accustomed  bondage  uncreate  1 


296  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

isoi  such  thy  suiis  who  wliilom*  did  await  — 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  >villing  doom  — 
In  bleak  Tliermopylaj's  sepulchral  strait : 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  1 

Spirit  of  Freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 

Coiddst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  that  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  % 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain. 

But  every  carle  t  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain. 

Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved ;  in  word,  in  deed,  unmanned 

In  all,  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !  and  who 

That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burned  anew 

With  thy  unquench(^d  beam,  lost  Liberty ! 

And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  j^'ives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage ; 

For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage. 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful  page. 

Hereditary  bondmen  !  know  ye  not 

AVho  would  be  free,  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  ] 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought : 

Will  Gaul,  or  Muscovite,  redress  yel  —  No ! 

True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low ; 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 

Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece !  change  thy  lords  :  thy  state  is  still  the  same  : 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thy  years  of  shame. 

*  Formerly.  t  A  rude  man. 


GliJ'.hth,  jy  1809.  297 

Wlion  risoth  Lacedifiuoii's  hartlihood, 

When  Thebes  Kpamiiiondas  rears' again, 
When  Atliens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 

When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men^ 

Then  thou  mayst  bo  restored ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  yeare  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state  ; 

iVn  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust ;  and  when 
Can  man  its  shattered  splendor  renovate  '\ 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate  ? 

And  yet,  how  lovely,  in  thine  age  of  woe, 

Land  of  lost  gods,  and  godlike  men,  art  thou ! 
Tliy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hiUs  of  snow. 

Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now. 

Thy  fan<'S,  thy  temples,  to  thy  surface  bow. 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth  ; 

Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth  ; 
So  perish  all  in  turn  save  well-recortled  worth  : 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 

Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ; 
Siive  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 

Colonna*s  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave ; 

Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 

Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave. 
While  strangers  only,  not  regardless  pass, 
Liiij.'rliiL'.  like  m.-,  t...T-.-linu.p,  to  gaze  and  si "1'    *'  \l'i<i!" 

\  <t  arc  my  sKics  as  ttjuf,  thy  crags  as  wild; 

Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  venlant  are  thy  fields, 
Tliine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 

And  still  his  honeyed  wealth  Hymettus  yiel.ls. 

There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 


298  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  freebom  wanderer  of  thy  mountain  air. 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beams  Mendeli's  marbles  glare  : 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom,  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

Where'er  we  tread  *t  is  haunted,  holy  ground  ; 

No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould ; 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 

And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing,  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon. 

Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold,^ 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy  temples  gone  : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

Long,  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past. 

Shall  pilgrims  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng  > 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast, 

Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song. 

Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore  ; 

Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 


,a^ 


LXIV.  —  THANATOPSIS.f 

BRYANT. 

TO  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language.     For  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
A  wood.  t  From  two  Greek  words,  signifying  a  view  of  death. 


thanatopsl:.  -OO 

And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.i  When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  im^es 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall. 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky, 'and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 

Comes  a  still  voice,  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  fonu  was  laid,  with  many  tears. 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.v  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-{)lace 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  —  nor  coiUdst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world ;  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past,  — 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 


300  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty, %nd  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  (^f  man  !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  intinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  traverse  Bart-a's  desert  sands ; 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  —  the  dead  are  there  ! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone^ 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  1     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  gUde-s  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side. 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 
^    So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  inimmerable  caravan,  which  moves 


JuAy  uF  ARC.  301 

To  that  mystciious  realm  whero  each  shall  tako 
UU  chamber  iu  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lios  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


LXV.  — JOAN  OF  ARC. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

Thomas  De  Quikcey  was  born  iu  Manchester,  England,  August  15,  1785;  lived  fo) 
some  years  In  Orassmere,  in  the  county  of  Westmoreland,  and  latterly  in  Scotland. 
He  die<l  December  2, 1850.  He  lirst  attracted  attention  as  a  writer  by  his  "  Confessioni 
of  an  English  Opiuni-Eater,"  published  in  1822,  which  was  much  admired  for  the  splen- 
dor of  Its  descriptions,  the  vividness  of  its  pictures,  and  the  impassioned  eloquence 
of  its  style.  He  afterwanls  wrote  a  great  number  of  papers  m  periodical  journals, 
especially  in  "  BUrkwood's  Magazine."  These  have  been  collected  and  published  in 
America;  lllling  thus  far  (and  the  list  is  not  exhausted)  not  less  than  eighteen 
small-sized  vohnnrs. 

De  Quincey  was  a  man  of  great  learning  and  genius.  His  style  is  distinguished  for 
elaborate  splendor  and  inii>erial  magnificence.  He  has  a  rare  power  of  painting  sol- 
emn and  gorgeous  pictures ;  not  with  a  few  touches,  but  in  lines  slowly  drawn  and 
witli  colors  carefully  laid  on.  He  has  equal  skill  in  expressing  the  language  of  strong 
and  deep  i>as8ion,  —  the  sorrow  that  softens  the  heart  and  the  remorse  which  lacer- 
ates it  He  has  also  a  peculiar  vein  of  humor,  which  produces  Its  effects  by  ampli- 
fication and  slowly  adding  one  ludicrous  conception  to  another.  And  combined  with 
these  arc  a  rare  faculty  of  acute  metaphysical  analysis,  which  divides  and  defines 
with  the  sharpest  precision,  and  a  biting  critical  discernment,  which  eats^into  the 
heart  of  ignorance  and  jircsumption.  The  writings  of  De  Quincey  are  well  worth 
studying  on  account  of  their  rhetorical  power  and  their  wealth  of  expression. 

"TTTHAT  is  to  be  thought  of  her  ?  What  is  to  be 
VV  thought  of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  from  the  hills 
and  forests  of  Lorraine,  that  —  like  the  Hebrew  sheplierd- 
boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Judjea  —  rose  suddenly 
out  of  the  quiet,  out  of  the  safety,  out  of  the  religious 
inspiration,  rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a  station 
in  the  van  of  armies,  and  to  the  more  perilous  station  at 
the  right  hand  of  kings  ? 


%r,2 


THE  SIXTH  READER. 


The  Hebrew  boy  inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission  by 
an  act,  by  a  victorious  act,  such  as  no  man  could  deny.       ^ 
But  so  did  the  girl  of  Lorraine,  if  we  read  her  story  as  it 
was  read  by  those  who  saw  her  nearest,     Adverse  armies 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  303 

bore  witness  to  the  boy  as  no  pretender;  but  so  they 
did  to  the  gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  who 
saw  them  from  a  station  of  good-will,  both  were  found 
trae  and  loyal  to  any  promises  involved  in  their  first 
acts.  Enemies  it  was  that  made  the  difference  between 
their  subsequent  fortunes. 

The  boy  rose  —  to  a  splendor  and  a  noonday  prosperity, 
both  personal  and  public,  that  rang  through  the  records 
of  his  people,  and  became  a  byword  amongst  his  pos- 
terity for  a  thousand  years,  until  the  sceptre  was  depart- 
ing from  Judah.  The  poor  forsaken  girl,  on  the  con- 
trary, drank  not  herself  from  that  cup  of  rest  which  she 
had  secured  for  Fmnce.  She  never  sang  together  with 
the  songs  that  rose  in  her  native  Domremy  *  as  echoes  to 
the  departing  steps  of  invaders.  She  mingled  not  in  the 
festal  dances  of  Vaucouleurs,-(*  which  celebrated  in  rapture 
the  redemption  of  France. 
,  No !  for  her  voice  was  then  silent.  No  !  for  her  feet 
were  dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble-hearted  girl!  whom, 
from  earliest  youth,  ever  I  believed  in  as  full  of  truth 
and  self-sacrifice,  this  was  amongst  the  strongest  pledges 
for  thy  side,  that  never  once  —  no,  not  for  a  moment 
of  weakness  —  didst  thou  revel  in  the  vision  of  coro- 
nets and  honor  from  man.  Coronets  for  thee !  0  no ! 
Honors,  if  they  come  when  all  is  over,  are  for  those  that 
share  thy  blood. 

Daughter  of  Domremy,  when  the  gratitude  of  thy  king 
shall  awaken,  thou  wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
Call  her,  king  of  France,  but  she  will  not  hear  thee.  Cite 
her  by  thy  apparitors  to  come  and  receive  a  robe  of  honor, 
but  she  will  not  obey  the  summons.  When  the  thunders 
of  universal  France,  as  even  yet  may  happen,  shall  pro- 

•  Donirciiiv.  dom'iivmy.  f  Vaucouleurs,  vo-cd-lers'. 


304  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

claim  the  grandeur  of  the  poor  sheplierd-girl,  that  gave 
up  all  for  her  country,  —  thy  ear,  young  shepherd-girl, 
will  have  been  deaf  for  five  centuries. 

To  suffer  and  to  do,  that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life ; 
to  do,  —  never  for  thyself,  always  for  others ;  to  suffer,  — 
never  in  the  persons  of  generous  champions,  always  in 
thy  own :  that  was  thy  destiny ;  and  not  for  a  moment 
was  it  hidden  from  thyself.  "  Life,"  thou  saidst,  "  is 
short,  and  the  ^leep  which  is  in  the  grave  is  long.  Let 
me  use  that  life,  so  transitory,  for  the  glory  of  those  heav- 
enly dreams  destined  to  comfort  the  sleep  which  is  so 
long." 

This  pure  creature,  —  pure  from  every  suspicion  of  even 
a  visionary  self-interest,  even  as  she  was  pure  in  senses 
more  obvious,  —  never  once  did  this  holy  child,  as  re- 
garded herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in  the  darkness 
that  was  travelling  to  meet  her.  She  might  not  pre- 
figure the  very  manner  of  her  death;  she  saw  not  in 
vision,  perhaps,  the  aerial  altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold, 
the  spectators  without  end  on  every  road  pouring  into 
Rouen  *  as  to  a  coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the  volley- 
ing flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around,  the  pitying  eye 
that  lurked  but  here  and  there  until  nature  and  imper- 
ishable truth  broke  loose  from  artificial  restraints, — these 
might  not  be  apparent  through  the  mists  of  the  hurrying 
future.  But  the  voice  that  called  her  to  death,  that  she 
heard  forever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those  days, 
and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  but  well  Joanna 
knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he  that  sat  upon  it,  was 
for  her ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  she  was  for  them  ;  not 
she  by  them,  but  they  by  her,  should  rise  from  the  dust 

*  Rouen,  ro'en  or  r6-an(g)'. 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  A    CHILD.  305 

Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,  and  for  centuries  had 
the  privilege  to  spread  their  beauty  over  land  and  sea, 
until,  in  another  century,  the  wiuth  of  God  and  man 
combined  to  wither  them ;  but  well  Joanna  knew  —  early 
at  Domremy  she  had  read  that  bitter  truth — that  the  lilies 
of  France  would  decorate  no  garland  for  Jier.  Flower  nor 
bud,  beU  nor  blossom,  would  ever  bloom  for  ?ier. 


LXVI.-.ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

JAMGB  R   LOWELL. 


K 


"OW  peacefully  they  rest, 
Cross-folded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 
Those  ami']]  white  hands  that  ne'er  were  still  before, 

But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 
Or  the  pJain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore ! 

Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 

To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 

That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise, 

Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 

To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm,  — 

Sweet  thoughts  !  they  made  her  eyes  as  sweet. 

How  quiet  are  the  hands 

That  wove  those  pleasant  bands  ! 

But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 

With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 

That  he  were  dropped  asleep  : 

Alas !  too  deep,  too  deep 


306  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Is  this  his  slumber ; 

Time  scarce  can  number 
The  years  ere  he  will  wake  again  — 
0,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then,  — 

O,  stern  word  —  nevermore  1 

He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples'  play, 
Or  listening  to  their  fairy  chime ; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And  putting  to  the  shore, 
While  yet  't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way. 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more  i 

Full  short  his  journey  was  ;  no  dusi. 

Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave  ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must. 

He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 

He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way, 
And  wandered  hither ;  so  his  stay 

With  us  was  short,  and  *t  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth's  clod. 

Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God  — 

O,  blest  word  —  evermore  I 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA   VISTA.  307 

LXVll        THK   ANGEI^   OF   BUENA  VISTA. 

WHITTIEa 

BoWA  Vista  U  a  hanUet  in  Mexico  where  the  Mexican  army,  under  General  Santa 
Anna,  was  defeated  by  the  Americans,  under  General  Taylor,  February  22  and  23, 
1847.  La  Angostura  is  about  a  mile  and  a  half  distant  La  Puebla  (pwifbla,  or 
poo-ft'bU)  is  the  second  city  of  Mexico. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  ourXimena,*  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  1  are  they  far  or  come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostuim  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have  mercy  on  their 

souls ! " 
Who  is  losing]  who  is  winning]  —  "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon,  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother !  keep  our  brothers  !     Look,  Ximena,  look  once 

more! 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before. 
Bearing  on.  in  strancrf'  confusion,  friond  and  fopman,  foot  and 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  moun- 
tain course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !     "  Ah  !  the  smoke  has  rolled 

:i\\M\    ; 

And  1  see  the  Nortlicrn  ri ties  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there  the  troop  of  Minon  t 
wheels  : 

Thoro  tlio  \nrt!H'rii  In u-scs  thuiulcr.  with  tho  cannon  at  their 

•  Pronounce«l  Hl-nia'iin. 

f   \(M,r>«  ,..r..,wM,.„,fvl  mill  .■■.,  :r  "oneral. 


308  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  ami  now  advance ! 
Kight  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  chai-ging  lance! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot  together 

fall; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the 

Northern  baU." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on. 
ISpeak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost  and  who  has 

won? 
"  Alas  !  alas !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall ; 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living ;  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all ! 

"  Lo  !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting.    Blessed  Mother,  save  my 

brain! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive 

to  rise; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our 

eyes! 

"  0  my  heart's  love !  O  my  dear  one !  lay  thy  poor  head  on 

my  knee ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  Hps  that  kiss  thee  1    Canst  thou  hear  me  1 

Canst  thou  see  ^ 
0  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !     O  my  Bernard,  look  once 

more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  mercy  !  mercy !  all  is  o'er." 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay. 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  lifft 
away ; 


But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Xiraena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pLstol-l)elt. 

With  a  stilled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  u\v;i}  her  head  ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead  : 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling 

breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parched  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand,  and  faintly 

smiled. 
Was  that  j)itying  face  his  mother's  1  did  she  watch  beside  her 

ciiiia  i 

All  liis  stranger  words  wit  ii  iiieuniiig  her  woman's  heart  supplied  ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother ! "  murmured  he, 

and  died. 

\ 

**  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From   some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping  lonely  in  the 

North ! " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  \7ith  her  dead, 
.\,.,i  f,,,.,.,-!  ♦-> —-.fijo  tiio ]ivinff^find  hiiul  thewouixls  wliichbled. 

Luuk  I'oiLh  oucG  more,  Ximeua  !  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death 

behind  ; 
Ah !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded 

strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels !  0  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  0  Night,  among  thy  mountains  !  let  the  cool,  gray  shad- 
ows fall ; 

Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all ! 

Througli  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle 
rolled, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 


310  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  soirow,  worn  and  faint  and 

lacking  food ; 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  liung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern 

tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  0  Father !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden 

flowers ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle.  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air ! 


LXVIIL  — VOICES   OF  THE  DEAD. 

CUMMINO. 

John  CrTMxnro,  D.  D.,  is  the  pastor  of  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  church  in  the  city 
of  London.  He  is  a  popular  and  eloquent  preacher,  and  the  author  of  many  works 
which  are  Oavorably  known  in  this  country  as  well  as  in  Europe.  Among  them  are 
"Apocalyptic  Sketches,"  "  Lectures  on  the  Parables,"  and  "Voices  of  the  Night." 

WE  die,  but  leave  an  influence  behind  us  that  sur- 
vives. The  echoes  of  our  words  are  evermore 
repeated,  and  reflected  along  the  ages.  It  is  what  man 
was  that  lives  and  acts  after  him.  What  he  said  sounds 
along  the  years  like  voices  amid  the  mountain  gorges  ; 
and  what  he  did  is  repeated  after  him  in  ever-multiply- 
ing and  never-ceasing  reverberations.  Every  man  has 
left  behind  him  influences  for  good  or  for  evil  that  will 
never  exhaust  themselves.  The  sphere  in  which  he  acts 
may  be  small,  or  it  may  be  great.  It  may  be  his  fireside, 
or  it  may  be  a  kingdom  ;  a  village,  or  a  great  nation ;  it 
may  be  a  parish,  or  broad  Europe :  but  act  he  does,  cease- 
lessly and  forever.     His  friends,  his  family,  his  successoi*s 


ri>i'i:s  '//■•  rur:  head.  311 

in  office,  his  relatives,  are  all  receptive  of  an  influence)^ 
a  moral  influence,  which  he  has  tmnsniitted  and  be- 
queathed to  mankind ;  either  a  blessing  which  will  repeat 
itself  in  showers  of  benedictions,  or  a  curse  which  will 
nmltiply  itself  in  ever-accumulating  evil. 

Every  man  is  a  missionary,  now  and  forever,  for  good 
or  for  evil,  whether  he  intends  and  designs  it  or  not. 
He  may  be  a  blot,  radiating  his  dark  influence  outward 
to  the  very  circumference  of  society,  or  he  may  be  a 
blessing,  spreading  benedictions  over  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  world;  but  a  blank  he  cannot  h&S  The 
seed  sownjn  life  springs  up  in  harvests  of  blessings  or 
harvests  of  sorrow.  Whether  our  influence  is  great  or 
small,  whether  it  is  good  or  evil,  it  lasts,  it  lives  some- 
where, within  some  limit,  and  is  operative  wherever  it  is. 
Tlie  gi*ave  buries  the  dead  dust,  but  the  character  walks 
the  world,  and  distributes  itself,  as  a  benediction  or  a 
curse,  among  the  families  of  mankind. 

The  sun  sets  beyond  the  western  Iiills ;  but  the  trail  of 
light  he  leaves  behind  him  guides  the  pilgrim  to  his  dis- 
tant home.  The  tree  falls  in  the  forest ;  but  in  the  lapse 
of  ages  it  is  turned  into  coal,  and  our  fires  burn  now  the 
brighter  because  it  grew  and  fell  The  coral  insect  dies ; 
but  the  reef  it  raised  breaks  the  surge  on  the  shores  of 
great  continents,  or  has  formed  an  isle  in  the  bosom  of  the 
ocean,  to  wave  with  harvests  for  the  good  of  man.  We 
live  and  we  die ;  but  the  good  or  evil  that  we  do  lives 
after  us,  and  is  not  "  buried  with  our  bones." 

Tlie  babe  that  perished  on  the  bosom  of  its  mother, 
like  a  flower  that  bowed  its  head  and  drooped  amid  the 
death-frosts  of  time,  —  that  babe,  not  only  in  its  image, 
but  in  its  influence,  still  lives  and  speaks  in  the  chambers 
of  the  mother's  heart. 


312  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  friend  witli  whom  we  took  sweet  counsel  is  re- 
moved visibly  from  the  outward  eye  ;  but  the  lessons 
that  he  taught,  the  grand  sentiments  that  he  uttered,  the 
holy  deeds  of  generosity  by  which  he  was  characterized, 
the  moral  lineaments  and  likeness  of  the  man,  still  sur- 
vive, and  appear  in  the  silence  of  eventide,  and  on  the 
tablets  of  memory,  and  in  the  light  of  morn,  and  noon, 
and  dewy  eve  ;  and,  being  dead,  he  yet  speaks  eloquently, 
and  in  the  midst  of  us. 

Mahomet  still  live^  in  his  practical  and  disastrous  in- 
fluence in  the  East.  Napoleon  still  is  France,  and  France 
is  almost  Napoleon.  Martin  Luther's  dead  dust  sleeps  at 
Wittenberg,  but  Martin  Luther's  accents  still  ring  through 
the  churches  of  Christendom.  Shakespeare,  Byron,  and 
Milton  all  live  in  their  influence,  for  good  or  eviL  The 
apostle  from  his  chair,  the  minister  from  his  pulpit,  the 
martyr  from  his  flame-shroud,  the  statesman  from  his 
cabinet,  the  soldier  in  the  field,  the  saUor  on  the  deck, 
who  all  have  passed  away  to  their  graves,  still  live  in  the 
practical  deeds  that  they  did,  in  the  lives  they  lived,  and 
in  the  powerful  lessons  that  they  left  behind  them. 

**  None  of  us  liveth  to  himself " ;  others  are  affected  by 
that  life :  "  or  dieth  to  himself" ;  others  are  interested  in 
that  death.  Our  queen's  crown  may  moulder,  but  she 
who  wore  it  will  act  upon  the  ages  which  are  yet  to  come. 
The  noble's  coronet  may  be  reft  in  pieces,  but  the  wearer 
of  it  is  now  doing  what  will  he  reflected  by  thousands 
who  will  be  made  and  moulded  by  him.  Dignity  and 
rank  and  riches  are  all  corruptible  and  worthless;  but 
moral  character  has  an  immortality  that  no  sword-point 
can  destroy,  that  ever  walks  the  world  and  leaves  last- 
ing influences  behind. 

What  we  do  is  transacted  on  a  stage  of  which  all  in  the 


VOICES  OF  THE   DEAD.  313 

universe  are  spectators.  What  we  say  is  transmitted  in 
echoes  that  will  never  cease.  What  we  are  is  influencing 
and  acting  on  the  rest  of  mankind.  Neutral  we  cannot  be. 
Living  we  act,  and  dead  we  speak  ;  and  the  whole  uni- 
verse is  the  mighty  company  forever  looking,  forever  lis- 
tening, and  all  nature  the  tablets  forever  recording  the 
words,  the  deeds,  the  thoughts,  the  passions,  of  mankind  I 

Monuments  and  columns  and  statues,  erected  to  he- 
roes, poets,  orators,  statesmen,  are  all  influences  that 
extend  into  the  future  ages.  "The  blind  old  man  of 
Scio's  rocky  isle  "  ♦  still  speaks.  The  Mantuan  bard  f 
still  sings  in  every  school.  Shakespeare,  the  bard  of 
Avon,  is  still  tmnslated  into  every  tongue.  The  philos- 
ophy of  the  Stagyrite  |  is  still  felt  in  every  academy. 
Whether  these  influences  are  beneficent  or  the  reverse, 
they  are  influences  fmught  with  power.  How  blest  must 
be  the  recollection  of  those  who,  like  the  setting  sun, 
have  left  a  trail  of  light  behind  them  by  which  othei*s 
may  see  the  way  to  that  rest  which  remaineth  with  the 
people  of  God ! 

It  is  only  the  pure  fountain  that  brings  forth  pure 
water.  The  good  tree  only  will  produce  the  good  fruit. 
If  the  centre  from  which  all  proceeds  is  pure  and  holy, 
the  radii  of  influence  from  it  will  be  pure  and  holy  also. 
Go  forth,  then,  into  the  spheres  that  you  occupy,  the  em- 
ployments, the  trades,  the  professions  of  social  life  ;  go 
forth  into  the  high  places  or  into  tlie  lowly  places  of  the 
land ;  mix  with  the  roaring  cataracts  of  social  convul- 
sions, or  mingle  amid  the  eddies  and  streamlets  of  quiet 
and  domestic  life  ;  whatever  spliere  you  fill,  carrying  into 
it  a  holy  heart,  you  will  radiate  around  you  life  and  power, 
and  leave  behind  you  holy  and  beneficent  influences. 

•  Honar.  +  Virgil.  ♦  Aristotle. 


314  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

LXIX.  — THE  BOSTON  TEA  CATASTROPHE 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  in  Dumfriesshire,  in  Scotland,  in  1796,  and  has  resided 
for  many  years  in  or  near  Londun.  While  quite  young,  he  wrote  several  papers  for 
Brewster  it  "  Ediubur:gh  Encyclopcedia  "  ;  but  he  Urat  began  to  attract  attention  by 
his  contributions  to  the  *'  Edinburgh  Review,"  and  esjiecially  by  an  atlujlniblc  \M\mr 
on  Bums.  He  rose  by  d^rees  into  great  }>opuIarity  and  commandvpg  influence  as  a 
writer,  but  was  knuwn  and  valued  at  an  earlier  i)criod  in  America  than  at  home. 
His  works  are  quite  numerous  :  among  them  are  a  "  Life  of  Schiller,"  "  Sartor  Resar- 
tus,"  a  '*  History  of  the  French  Revolution,"  "  Past  and  Present,"  "  Hero- Worship," 
"  Latter-Day  Pamphlets,"  a  "  Life  of  Sterling,"  "  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Cromwell," 
"  Chartism,"  and  several  volumes  of  contributions  to  ^leriodical  literature. 

Carlyle  is  an  original  thinker  and  a  powerful  writer.  His  early  and  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  the  literature  of  Germany  has  given  a  peculiar  character  to  his  style,  by 
which  some  are  repelled  and  some  are  attracted  ;  the  latter  lx;ing  now  the  Uirger 
}>art.  Portions  of  his  later  writings  read  like  literal  translations  from  the  Genuan. 
He  is  fond  of  odd  terms  of  expression,  and  has  a  family  of  pet  words,  which  he  in- 
troduces on  all  occasions.  His  style  Is  thus  very  marked,  and  never  to  be  mistaken 
for  that  of  any  other  author.  His  writings  are  not  easy  reading  at  first ;  but  those 
who  like  them  at  all  like  them  much. 

The  following  extract  is  trom  tlie  "History  of  Frederick  the  Great,"  Vol.  VI. 
pp.  406,  407. 

CURIOUS  to  remark,  wliile  Frederick  is  writing  this 
letter,  "  Thursday,  December  16, 1773,"  what  a  com- 
motion is  going  on,  far  over  seas,  at  Boston,  New  Eng- 
land, in  the  "  Old  Soutli  Meeting-house  "  tliere,  in  regard 
to  three  English  tea-ships  that  are  lying  embargoed  in 
Griffin's  Wharf*,  for  above  a  fortnight  past.  The  case  is 
well  known,  and  still  memorable  to  mankind. 

British  Parliament,  after  nine  years  of  the  saddest 
haggling  and  baffling  to  and  fro,  under  constitutional 
stress  of  weather,  and  such  east  winds  and  west  winds 
of  Parliamentary  eloquence  as  seldom  were,  has  made  up 
its  mind  that  America  shall  pay  duty  on  tliese  teas  be- 
fore infusing  them  ;  and  America,  Boston  more  especially, 
is  tacitly  determined  that  it  will  not ;  and  that,  to  avoid 
mistakes,  these  teas  shall  never  l^e  landed  at  all.  Such 
is  Boston's  private  intention,  more  or  less  fixed,  —  to  say 


THE  BOSTOy  TEA   CATASTROPHE.  315 

nothing  of  the  Philadelphias,  Charlestons,  New  Yorks, 
who  are  watching  Boston,  and  will  follow  suite  of  it 

Sunday,  November  26th,  —  that  is,  nineteen  days  ago, 
—  the  firet  of  these  tea-ships,  the  "  Dartmouth,"  Captain 
Hall,  moored  itself  in  Griffin's  Wharf.  Owner  and  con- 
signee is  a  bix)ad-brimmed  Boston  gentleman  called 
Jtotch,  more  attentive  to  pi-ofits  of  tmde  than  to  the 
groans  of  Boston  ;  but  already  on  that  Sunday,  much  moi-e 
on  the  Monday  following,  there  had  a  meeting  of  citi- 
zeas  run  together  (on  Monday  Faneuil  Hall  won't  hold 
them,  and  they  adjourn  to  the  Old  South  Meeting-house), 
who  make  it  apparent  to  Rotch  that  ic  will  nmcli  be- 
lieve him,  for  the  sake  both  of  tea  and  skin,  not  to  "  en- 
ter "  (or  officially  announce)  this  ship  "  Dartmouth  "  at 
the  custom-house  in  any  wise ;  but  to  pledge  his  broad- 
brimmed  woi-d,  equivalent  to  his  oath,  that  she  shall  lie 
dormant  there  in  Griffin's  Wharf,  till  we  see. 

Which,  accordingly,  she  has  been  doing  ever  since ;  she 
and  two  others  that  arrived  some  days  later,  dormant  all 
three  of  them,  side  by  side,  three  crews  totally  idle ;  a 
"Committee  of  Ten"  supervising  Rotch's  procedures;  and 
the  Bo.ston  world  much  expectant  Thursday,  December 
1  Gth  :  this  is  the  twentieth  day  since  Rotch's  "  Dart- 
mouth" arrived  here;  if  not  "entered"  at  custom-house 
in  the  course  of  this  day,  custom-house  cannot  give  her  a 
"  clearance "  either  (a  leave  to  depart) ;  she  becomes  a 
smuggler,  an  out  law.  imd  Iht  fate  is  mysterious  to  Rotch 
and  to  us. 

This  Thursday,  accordingly,  by  ten  in  the  morning,  in 
tlie  Old  South  Meeting-house,  Boston  is  .issembled,  and 
country  people  to  the  number  of  2,000 ;  and  Rotch  was 
never  in  such  a  company  of  human  friends  before.  They 
are  not  uncivil  fo  liiiu   (cautious  people,  heedful  of  the 


316  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

verge  of  the  law) ;  but  they  are  peremptory,  to  the  ex- 
tent of —     Rotch  may  shudder  to  think  what. 

"  I  went  to  the  custom-liouse  yesterday,"  said  Hotch, 
"your  Committee  of  Ten  can  bear  me  witness,  and  de- 
manded clearance  and  leave  to  depart ;  but  tliey  would 
not:  were  forbidden,  they  said."  "Go,  then,  sir;  get  you 
to  the  governor  liimself ;  a  clearance,  and  out  of  harbor 
this  day  ;  had  n't  you  better  i "  Kutch  is  well  aware  tliat 
he  had ;  hastens  off  to  the  governor  (who  has  vauislied 
to  his  country-house  on  purpose).  Old  South  Meeting- 
house adjourning  till  3  r.  M.,  for  liolch's  return  with 
clearance. 

At  three  no  Kotch,  nor  at  four,  nor  at  five ;  miscella- 
neous plangent,*  intermittent  speech  instead,  mostly  plan- 
gent, in  tone  sorrowful  rather  than  indignant ;  at  a 
quarter  to  six,  here  at  length  is  Eotch ;  sun  is  long  since 
set,  —  has  Kotch  a  clearance  or  not  ? 

liotch  reports  at  large,  willing  to  be  questioned  and 
cross-questioned :  "  Governor  absolutely  would  not !  My 
Christian  friends,  what  could  1  or  can  I  do  ? "  There  are 
by  this  time  7,000  i>eople  in  Old  South  Meeting-house ; 
very  few  tallow  lights  in  comparison,  —  almost  no  lights 
for  the  mind  either,  —  and  it  is  difficult  to  answer. 

Itotch's  report  done,  the  chairman  (one  Adams, "  Amer- 
ican Cato,"  subsequently  so  called) "  dissolves  the  sorrow- 
ful 7,000,"  with  these  words:  "This  meeting  declares 
that  it  can  do  nothing  more  to  save  the  country."  Will 
merely  go  home,  then,  and  weep.  Hark,  however:  al- 
most on  the  instant,  in  front  of  Old  South  Meeting-liouse, 
a  terrific  war-whoop ;  and  about  fifty  Mohawk  Indians,  — 
with  whom  Adams  seems  to  be  acquainted,  and  speaks 
without  interpreter.     Aha! 

*  Plangent :   literally,  dashing,  as  the  waves  of  the  sea ;  here,  sad  and 
monotonous. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY.  317 

And,  sure  enough,  before  the  stroke  of  seven,  tliese  fifty 
painted  Mohawks  are  forward,  witliout  noise,  to  Giiffin's 
Wharf;  have  put  sentries  all  round  there ;  and,  in  a  great 
silence  of  the  neighborhood,  ai*e  busy,  in  three  gangs,  on 
the  dormant  tea-ships,  opening  their  cliests  and  punctu- 
ally shaking  them  out  into  the  sea.  "  Listening  from  the 
ih'stance,  you  could  hear  the  ripping  open  of  the  chests 
and  no  other  sound."  About  10  p.  M.,  all  was  finished ; 
342  chests  of  tea  ilung  out  to  infuse  in  the  Atlantic ;  the 
fifty  Mohawks  gone  like  a  dream ;  and  Boston  sleeping 
more  silently  even  than  usual 


LXX— INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY. 

WORDSWORTH. 

William  Wordsworth  was  bom  at  Cookennouth,  In  the  county  of  Cumberland, 
England,  April  7,  1770  ;  and  died  April  23, 1830.  Hin  life  was  i»as8ed  for  the  most  part 
in  Uiat  beautiful  region  of  England  where  he  was  bom,  and  with  which  so  much  of  his 
IKwtry  is  insciiarably  associated.  He  made  his  flr«t  apinairance  as  an  author  in  1793, 
by  the  publication  of  a  thin  quarto  volume  of  poems,  which  did  not  attract  much 
attention.  Indee«l,  for  many  years  his  iK>etr)-  made  little  impression  on  the  general 
public,  and  that  not  of  a  favorable  kind.  The  *'  Edinburgh  Review  "  —  the  grejit  au- 
thority in  matters  of  literary  taste  —  set  its  face  against  him  ;  and  Wordsworth's  own 
style  and  manner  were  so  peculiar,  and  so  unlike  those  of  the  poetry  which  was  pop- 
ular at  the  time,  that  he  was  obliged  to  create  the  taste  by  which  he  himself  was 
Juilgcd.  As  time  went  on,  his  influence  and  popularity  increased,  and  many  years 
l»efore  his  tleath  he  enjoyeil  a  fame  and  consideration  which  in  calmness  and  serenity 
resembled  the  unbiasseil  judgment  of  posterity. 

Wonlsworth's  character  was  pure  and  high.  He  was  resen'ed  in  manner,  and  some 
what  exclusive  in  his  tastes  and  sympathies ;  but  his  friends  were  warmly  attached  to 
him.    His  domestic  aflections  were  strong  ami  deep. 

His  Life  has  been  published,  since  his  decease,  by  his  nephew,  the  Rev.  Christopher 
Wordsworth,  and  republishe<l  in  this  country.  In  Coleridge's  "  Biographia  Literaria." 
there  is  an  admirable  review  of  his  poetical  genius,  in  which  praise  is  tiestowed  gen- 
erously and  discriminately,  and  defects  are  pointed  oat  with  a  loving  and  reverent 


HERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  connimn  sij^ht, 
To  me  did  soem 


T 


318  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Apparelled  in  celestial  light,  — 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  : 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

Thy  rainbow  comes  and  goes. 
And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  : 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  comes  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gives  that  thought  n*lief. 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep,  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng ; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity  ; 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday ;  — 

Thou  child  of  joy,  ^ 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  shepherd- 
boy  ! 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY.  HIO 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thoughts  of  our  jMist  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed, 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest,  — 
DeHght  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-Iledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast,  — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  ci-eaturo 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised,  — 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Arc  yet  the  fountiiin-liglit  of  all  our  day, 
Arc  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Tphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  powor  to  make 
Our  noisy  ye-ars  seem  moments  in  the  being 

Of  the  eternal  silence  ;  tniths  that  awake, 
To  perish  never,  — 
Wlii<']i  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor. 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
>ior  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather. 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 


320  THE  SIXTH  READER 

Which  brought  us  hither,  — 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

And  0,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might  j 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-bom  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears,  — 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


LXXL  — THE  BIBLK 

STUDY  how  to  be  wise ;  and  in  all  your  gettings  get  un- 
derstanding. And  especially  would  I  urge  upon  your, 
soul-wrapt  attention  that  Book  upon  which  all  feelings,  all 
opinions,  are  concentrated ;  which  enlightens  the  judgment, 
while  it  enlists  the  sentiments,  and  soothes  the  imagination 
in  songs  upon  the  harp  of  the  "  sweet  songster  of  Israel." 
The  Book  which  gives  you  a  faithful  insight  into  your 
heart,  and  consecrates  its  character  in 


THE  BIBLE.  321 

"Shrines 
Such  as  the  keen  tooth  of  time  can  never  touch. " 

Would  you  know  the  effect  of  that  Book  upon  the  heart  ? 
It  purifies  its  thoughts  and  sanctifies  its  joys ;  it  nerves 
and  strengthens  it  for  sorrow  and  the  mishaps  of  life ;  and 
when  these  shall  have  ended,  and  the  twilight  of  death  is 
cpreading  its  dew-damp  upon  the  wasting  features,  it  pours 
upon  the  last  glad  throb  the  bright  and  streaming  light  of 
Eternity's  morning.  O,  have  you  ever  stood  beside  the 
couch  of  a  dying  saint,  wheu 

**  Without  a  sigh, 
A  change  of  feature  or  a  shaded  smile, 
He  gave  his  hand  to  the  stern  messenger, 
And  as  a  glad  child  sei^ks  his  father's  arms, 

Went  home  "  ? 

Then  you  have  seen  the  deep,  the  penetrating  influence 
of  this  Book. 

Would  you  know  its  name  ?  It  is  the  Book  of  books, 
—  its  author,  God,  —  its  theme,  Heaven,  Eternity.  The 
Bible  !  Read  it,  search  it.  Let  it  be  first  upon  the  shelves 
of  your  library,  and  first  in  the  affections  of  your  heart. 
"  Search  the  Scriptures,  for  in  them  ye  think  ye  have  eternal 
life ;  and  they  are  they  which  testify  of  me."  0,  if  there 
is  sublimity  in  the  contemplation  of  God,  —  if  there  is 
grandeur  in  the  display  of  eternity,  —  if  there  is  anything 
ennobling  and  purifying  in  the  revelation  of  man's  salva- 
tion, search  the  Scriptures,  for  they  are  they  which  testify 
of  these  things ! 


322  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

LXXIL— WILLIAM  TELL 

KNOWLES. 

James  Sheridam  Knowles  was  born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  in  I7S4 ;  and  died  in  1862. 
He  was  the  author  of  "  The  Hunchback,"  *'  Vlrginiiia,"  *•  William  Tell,"  "The  Wife," 
uiid  several  other  plays,  lionie  of  M'hich  have  been  highly  sticcessful.  He  was  origi- 
nally an  actor  and  teucher  of  elocution,  but  in  hia  latter  years  he  was  a  zealous  and 
eloquent  preacher  of  tlie  Baptist  denomination. 

The  following  extract  is  from  "  William  Tell,"  a  play  founded  on  the  leading  inci- 
dents in  the  life  of  tlie  Swiss  itatriot  of  that  name.  Oesler  (pronounced  GitH^x)  is 
Um5  Austrian  governor  of  Switzerland,  and  Samem  one  of  his  officeis. 

William  Tell,  Albert,  aiul  Gesler. 

Gesler.   What  is  thy  name  % 

Tell.   My  name  ? 
It  matters  not  to  keep  it  from  thee  now  : 
My  name  is  TelL 

Ges.   Tell,  — William  TeU! 

Tell.   The  same. 

Ges.    What !  he  so  famed  'bovc  all  his  countrymen 
For  guiding  o'er  the  stormy  lake  the  boat  1 
And  such  a  master  of  his  bow,  't  is  said 
His  arrows  never  miss !     Indeed,  I  *11  take 
Exquisite  vengeance  !     Mark  !  I  '11  spare  thy  life,  — 
Thy  boy's  too,  —  both  of  you  are  free,  —  on  one 
Condition. 

Tell.    Name  it. 

Ges.    I  would  sec  you  make 
A  trial  of  your  skill  with  that  same  bow 
Vou  shoot  so  well  with. 

Tell.    Name  the  trial  you 
Would  have  me  make. 

Ges.   You  look  upon  your  boy 
As  though  instinctively  you  guessed  it. 

Tell.  Look  upon  my  boy  !  What  mean  you  ?  Look  upon 
My  boy  as  though  I  guessed  it,  —  guessed  the  trial 


WILLIAM  TELL.  323 

You  'd  have  me  make,  —  guessed  it 

Instinctively  !     You  do  not  me^n  —     No,  —  no,  — 

You  would  have  me  make  a  trial  of 

My  skill  upon  ray  child  !     Impossible  I 

I  do  not  guess  your  meaning. 

Ges.   I  would  see 
lliee  hit  an  apple  at  the  distance  of 
A  hundred  paces. 

Tell.   Is  my  boy  to  hold  it  1 

Ges.   No. 

Tell.   No  I  —  I  '11  send  the  arrow  through  the  core  I 

Ges.    It  is  to  rest  upon  his  head. 

Tell.    Great  Heaven,  you  hoar  him  ! 

Ges.    Thou  dost  hear  the  choice  I  give,  — 
Such  trial  of  the  skill  thou  art  master  of, 
Or  death  to  both  of  you  ;  not  otherwise 
To  be  escajMid. 

Tell.    0  monster ! 

Ges.   Wilt  thou  do  it? 

Albert.    He  will !  he  will ! 

Tell.    Ferocious  monster !  —  make 
A  father  murder  his  own  child  ! 

Ges.   Takeoff 
His  chains,  if  he  consent. 

Tell.   With  his  own  hand ! 

Ges.    Does  he  consent  1 

Axa    He  does. 

(Gesler  gigTis  to  his  officers^  who  proceed  to  take  off  Tell's  chains. 
Tell  all  the  time  unamscioiu  what  they  do.) 

Tell.   With  his  own  hand  ! 
Murder  his  child  \vith  his  own  hand,  —  this  hand,  — 
The  hand  I  *vo  led  him,  when  an  infant,  by ! 
'T  is  beyond  horror,  —  *t  is  most  horrible  ! 
Amazement !     {His  chains  fall  off.)     What  *s  that  you  'vo  done 
to  me. 


324  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Villains  !  put  ou  my  chains  again.     My  hands 

Are  free  from  blood,  and  have  no  gust  for  it, 

That  they  should  drink  my  child's  1     Here  !  here  !     I  'U  not 

Munler  my  boy  for  Gesler. 

Alb.    Father,  —  father! 
You  will  not  hit  me,  father  1 

Tell.    Hit  thee  !  —  Send 
The  arrow  through  thy  brain  ;  or,  missing  that, 
Shoot  out  an  eye  ;  or,  if  thine  eye  escape. 
Mangle  the  cheek  I  've  seen  thy  mother's  lips 
Cover  with  kisses  !  —  Hit  thee,  —  hit  a  hair 
Of  thee,  and  cleave  thy  mother's  heart  — 

Ges.   Dost  thou  consent  1 

Tell.    Give  me  my  bow  and  quiver. 

Ges.   For  what  1 

Tell.   To  shoot  my  boy  I 

Alr    No,  father,  —  no  ! 
To  save  me  !     You  '11  be  sure  to  hit  the  apple,  — 
Will  you  not  save  me,  father  ? 

Tell.    Lead  me  forth  ; 
I  '11  make  the  trial ! 

Alb.    Thank  you ! 

Tell.    Thank  me  !     Do 
You  know  for  what  1     I  will  not  make  the  trial, 
To  take  him  to  his  mother  in  ray  arms, 
And  lay  him  down  a  corpse  before  her ! 

Ges.   Then  he  dies  this  moment,  —  and  you  certainly 
Do  murder  him  whose  life  you  have  a  chance 
To  save,  and  will  not  use  it. 

Tell.    WeU,  —  I  '11  do  it :  I  '11  make  the  trial 

Alr   Father  — 

Tell.    Speak  not  to  me  : 
Let  me  not  hear  thy  voice.     Thou  must  be  dumb ; 
And  so  should  all  things  be.     Earth  should  be  dumb, 
And  Heaven,  —  unless  its  thunders  muttered  at 


WILLIAM  TELL,  325 


The  deed,  and  sent  a  bolt  to  stop  it  1     Give  me 
My  bow  and  quiver  ! 

Gbs.   When  all 's  ready. 

Tell.   Well !     Lead  on  !  . 


LXXIII.  — WILLIAM  TELL 

(concluded.) 

Peusons.  —  Enter,  slowly,  people  in  evident  digress,  —  Officers,  Sar- 
NEM,  Gesler,  Tell,  Albert,  and  Soldiers,  —  one  bearing  Tell's 
bow  and  quiver,  another  toith  a  basket  of  apples. 

Ges.    That  is  your  ground.     Now  shall  they  measure  thence 
A  Inindred  paces.     Take  the  distance. 

Tell.    Is  the  line  a  true  one  ] 

Ges.    True  or  not,  what  is 't  to  thee  1 

Tell.    What  is  't  to  me  1    A  little  thing, 
A  very  little  thing  ;  a  yard  or  two 
Is  nothing  here  or  there  —  were  it  a  wolf 
I  shot  at !     Never  mind. 

Ges.    Be  thankful,  slave, 
Our  grace  accords  thee  life  on  any  terms. 

Tell.    I  will  be  thankful,  Gesler !  —  Villain,  stop  ! 
You  measure  to  the  sun. 

Ges.    And  what  of  that  1 
What  matter  whether  to  or  from  the  sun  1 

Tell.    I  *d  have  it  at  my  back ;  the  sun  should  shine 
Upon  the  mark,  and  not  on  him  that  shoqts. 
I  cannot  see  to  shoot  against  the  sun,  — 
I  will  not  shoot  against  the  sun ! 

Ges.    Give  him  his  way !     Tliou  hast  cause  to  bless  my 
mercy. 

Tell.    I  shall  remember  it.     I  M  like  to  see 
The  apple  I  *m  to  shoot  at 


326  THE  SIXTH  READER 

Ges.   Stay  !  show  me  the  basket !    There  — 

Tell.   You  've  picked  the  smallest  one. 

Ges.   I  know  I  have. 

Tell.  Oh !  do  you  1  —  But  ypu  see 
The  color  on 't  is  dark,  I  'd  have  it  light, 
To  see  it  better. 

Ges.   Take  it  as  it  is  : 
Thy  skill  will  be  the  greater  if  thou  hit'st  it. 

Tell.   True,  —  true  !     I  did  not  think  of  that ;  I  wonder 
I  did  not  think  of  that.     Give  me  some  chance 
To  save  my  boy  !     ( Throws  atoay  Ou  apple  toith  all  his  farce.) 
I  will  not  murder  him. 
If  I  can  help  it  —  for  the  honor  of 
The  form  thou  wearest,  if  all  the  heart  is  gone. 

Ges.    Well :  choose  thyself. 

Tell.   Have  I  a  friend  among  the  lookers-on  1 

Verner.    {Rushing  fonoard.)     Here,  TeU. 

Tell.    I  thank  thee,  Verner ! 
He  is  a  friend  runs  out  into  a  storm 
To  shake  a  hand  with  us.     I  must  be  brief : 
When  once  the  bow  is  bent,  we  cannot  take 
The  shot  too  soon.     Verner,  whatever  be 
The  issue  of  this  hour,  the  common  cause 
Must  not  stand  still.     Let  not  to-morrow's  sun 
Set  on  the  tyrant's  banner !     Verner !   Verner! 
The  boy  !  — the  boy  !     Thinkcst  thou  he  hath  the  courage 
To  stand  it? 

Ver.   Yes. 

Tell.   Does  he  tremble  1 

Ver.   No. 

Tell.   Art  sure  % 

Ver.    I  am. 

Tell.   How  looks  he  1 

Ver.    Clear  and  smilingly  : 
If  you  doubt  it,  look  yourself. 


WILLIAM  TELL.  327 

Tell.   No,  —  no,  —  my  friend ; 
To  hear  it  is  enough. 

Vbr.    He  bears  himself  so  much  above  his  years  — 

Tell.    I  know,  —  I  know! 

Veb.   With  constancy  so  modest  — 

Tell.   I  was  sure  he  would  ! 

Ver.   And  looks  with  such  relying  love 
And  reverence  upon  you  — 

Tell.   Man  !     Man  !     Man  ! 
No  more  !     Already  I  'ra  too  much  the  father 
To  act  the  man !  —  Vemer,  no  more,  my  friend  ! 
I  would  be  flint,  —  flint,  —  flint.     Don't  make  mo  feel 
I  'm  not,  —  do  not  mind  me !     Take  the  boy 
And  set  him,  Vemer,  with  his  back  to  me. 
Set  him  upon  his  knees,  and  place  this  apple 
Upon  his  head,  so  that  the  stem  may  front  me,  — 
Thus,  Vemer ;  charge  him  to  keep  steady,  —  tell  him 
I  '11  hit  the  apple !     Vemer,  do  all  this 
More  briefly  than  I  tell  it  thee. 

Ver.    Come,  Albert !     {Leading  him  out.) 

ALa    May  I  not  speak  with  him  before  I  go  ] 

Ver.   No. 

Alb.    I  would  only  kiss  his  hand. 

Ver.   You  must  not. 

Alb.   I  must!     I  cannot  go  from  him  without. 

Ver.    It  is  his  will  you  should. 

Alb.    His  will,  is  it  1 
I  am  content  then ;  come. 

Tell.    My  boy  !      {Holding  out  his  amis  to  hiin.) 

Alb.    My  father!     {Rushing  into  Teal's  amut.) 

Tell.    If  thou  canst  bear  it,  should  not  II  —  Go,  now. 
My  son,  and  keep  in  mind  that  I  can  shoot  — 
Go,  boy,  —  be  thou  but  steady,  I  will  hit 
The  apple.     Go  !     Gotl  bless  thee,  —  go.  —  My  bow !  — 
{TJu  how  is  handed  to  him.) 


328  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  thy  master,  wilt  thou  1     Thou 
Hast  never  failed  him  yet,  old  servant.     No, 
I  'm  sure  of  thee  ;  I  know  thy  honesty. 
Thou  art  stanch,  —  stanch.     Let  me  see  my  quiver. 

Ge8.    Give  him  a  single  arrow. 

Tell.   Do  you  shoot  1 

Sol.   I  do. 

Tell.   Is  it  so  you  pick  an  arrow,  friend  1 
The  point,  you  see,  is  bent ;  the  feather  jagged  :  {Breaks  it.) 
That 's  all  the  use  't  is  fit  for. 

Ges.   Let  him  have  another. 

Tell.   Why,  't  is  better  than  the  first. 
But  yet  not  good  enough  for  such  an  aim 
As  I  'm  to  take,  —  't  is  heavy  in  the  shaft  : 
I  '11  not  shoot  with  it !   {Throws  it  away.)   Let  me  see  my  quiver. 
Bring  it !     T  is  not  one  arrow  in  a  dozen 
I  *d  take  to  shoot  with  at  a  dove,  much  less 
A  dove  like  that. 

Ges.    It  matters  not. 
Show  him  the  quiver. 

Tell.   See  if  the  boy  is  ready. 

(Tell  here  hides  an  arrow  under  his  vest.) 

Ver.    He  is. 

Tell.    I  'm  ready,  too  I     Keep  silent  for 
Heaven's  sake,  and  do  not  stir ;  and  let  me  have 
Your  prayers,  —  your  prayers ;  and  be  my  witnesses, 
That  if  his  life  's  in  peril  from  my  hand, 
'T  is  only  for  the  chance  of  saving  it     {To  the  people.) 

Ges.    Go  on. 

Tell.   I  will. 
O  friends,  for  mercy's  sake,  keep  motionless 
And  silent !  . 

(Tell  shoots  ;  a  shout  of  exultation  bursas  from  the  crowd.  Tell's 
head  drops  on  his  bosom  ;  he  with  difficulty  supports  himself 
upon  his  brow.) 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY.  329 

Ver.    {Rushing  in  iriih  Albert.)     The  boy  is  safe  !  no  hair  of 
him  is  touched ! 

Alb,   Father,  I  *m  safe  ! — your  ^bert  's  safe,  dear  father. 
Speak  to  me !     Speak  to  me  ! 

Ver.    He  cannot,  boy  ! 

Alb.    You  grant  him  life  1 

Ges.    I  do. 

Alb.   And  we  are  free  1 

Ges.    You  are.     {Crossing  angrily  hthind.) 

Alb.    Thank  Heaven !  —  thank  Heaven  ! 

\         Open  his  vest, 
Anil  give  him  air. 

(Albert  opens  his  father's  vest,  and  the  arrow  drops.    Tell  starts, 
fixes  his  eye  on  Albert,  and  clasps  him  to  his  breast.) 

Tell.   My  boy  !  —  My  boy ! 
Ges.    For  what 
Hid  you  that  arrow  in  your  breast  1     Speak,  slave  ! 
Tell.   To  kill  thee,  tyrant,  had  I  slain  my  boy  ! 


LXXIV.  — THE   BATTLE  OF  NASEBY. 
macaulat. 

Nasebt  is  a  small  parish  near  Northampton,  England,  where  the  troops  of  Charles  I. 
were  totally  defeated  by  the  Parliamentary  army  under  Fairfax  in  1645. 

OH,  wherefore  come  ye  forth,  in  triumph  from  the  North, 
With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and  your  raiment  all  red  ] 
And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joyous  shout  ] 
And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  which  ye  tread  1 

0,  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice,  of  the  vintage  that  we  trod  ! 

For  we  trampled  on  tlic  throng  of  the  haughty  and  the  strong. 
Who  sat  in  the  high  places,  and  slew  the  saints  of  God. 


330  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of  June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance,  and  their  cuirasses  shine ; 

And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his  long  essenced  hair, 
And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert  of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and  his  sword. 
The  general  rode  along  us,  to  form  us  to  the  fight. 

When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swelled  into  a  shout, 
Among  the  godless  horsemen,  upon  the  tyrant's  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line  ! 

For  God  !  for  the  Cause  !  for  the  Church !  for  tne  Laws ! 
For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the  Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and  his  drums, 
His  bravoes  of  Alsatia,  and  pages  of  Whitehall ; 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks.     Grasp  your  pikes,  close  your 
ranks. 
For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

They  are  hero !   They  rush  on  !    We  are  broken  !   We  are  gone ! 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the  blast. 
0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !    0  Lord,  defend  the  right ! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name,  and  light  it  to  the  last. 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound  ;  the  centre  hath  given  ground ; 
Hark  !  hark  !  what  means  this  trampling  of  horsemen  in  our 
rear] 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys  1    'T  is  he,  thank  God  !  't  is  he, 
boys ! 
Bear  up  another  minute ;  brave  Oliver  is  here. 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row, 

Like  a  whirlwind"  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on  the  dikes ; 


THE   WIDOW  OF  GLENCOE.  331 

Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his  pikes. 

Fast,  fust,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to  hide 
Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Temple  Bar  ; 

And  ho  —  he  tunis,  he  flies  :  —  shame  on  those  cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look  on  war. 


LXXV.  — THE  WIDOW  OF  GLENCOK 

AYTOUN. 

WttUAM  BDMOKDerooHE  Attouit  wu  bom  in  the  county  of  Fife,  in  Scotland,  in 
ISIS.  He  WW  called  to  the  Scotch  bar  in  1S40,  and  in  1845  was  elected  to  the  profes- 
surehip  of  rhetoric  and  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  which  he  held 
until  his  death,  August  4,  1S65.  He  was  a  prominent  contributor  to  "  Bkckwood's 
Magazine." 

In  the  month  of  February,  1692,  a  number  of  persons  of  the  clan  of  Macdonald, 
n*skllng  in  Glencoc,  a  glen  on  the  western  coast  of  S<"ntland,  wene  cnielly  and  trcach- 
rously  put  to  death,  on  the  ground  that  their  chief  had  not  taken  tlic  oath  of  allegi- 
uice  to  the  government  of  King  William  within  the  time  prescribed  by  his  proclama- 
tion. A  full  and  interesting  account  of  the  massacre  may  be  found  in  Macaulay's 
"  History  of  England."  The  following  poem  is  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  tlic  widow 
of  one  of  the  victims.  The  captain  of  the  company  of  soldiers  by  whom  the  massacre 
was  perpetrated  was  Campbell  of  Glenlyon.  "The  dauntless  Graime"  was  the  Mar- 
quis of  Montrose. 

DO  not  lift  him  from  the  bracken,  leave  liim  lying  where 
he  fell,  — 
lietter  bier  ye  cannot  fashion  :  none  beseems  him  half  so  well 
.Vs  the  bare  and  broken  heather,  and  the  hard  and  trampled  sod, 
Whence  his  angry  soul  ascended  to  the  judgment-seat  of  God  ! 
Winding-sheet  we  cannot  give  him,  —  seek  no  mantle  for  the 

dead, 
Save  the  cold  and  spotless  covering  showered  from  heaven  upon 

his  head. 
Leave  his  broadsword  as  we  found  it,  rent  and  broken  with  the 

blow 
That,  before  he  died,  avenged  him  on  the  foremost  of  the  foe. 


332  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Leave  the  blood  upon  his  bosom,  —  wash  not  off  that  sacred 

stain  ; 
Let  it  stiffen  on  the  tartan,  let  his  wounds  unclosed  remain, 
Till  the  day  when  he  shall  show  them  at  the  tlirone  of  God  on 

high, 
When   the   murderer  and   the   murderefl   meet  before   their 

Judge's  eye. 
Nay,  —  ye  should  not  weep,  my  children  !  leave  it  to  the  faint 

and  weak ; 
Sobs  are  but  a  woman's  weapons,  —  tears  befit  a  maiden's  cheek. 
Weep  not,  children  of  Macdonald  !   weep  not  thou,  his  orphan 

heir; 
Not  in  shame,  but  stainless  honor,  lies  thy  slaughtered  father 

there. 
Weep  not ;  but  when  years  are  over,  and  thine  arm  is  strong 

and  sure, 
And  thy  foot  is  swift  and  steady  on  the  mountain  and  the  muir, 
Let  thy  heart  be  hard  as  iron,  and  thy  wrath  as  fierce  as  fire. 
Till  the  hour  when  vengeance  cometh  for  the  race  that  slew 

thy  sire ! 
Till  in  deep  and  dark  Glenlyon  rise  a  louder  shriek  of  woe, 
Than  at  midnight,  from  their  eyry,  scared  the  eagles  of  Glencoe ; 
L-ouder  than  the  screams  that  mingled  with  the  howling  of  the 

blast, 
When  the  murderers'  steel  was  clashing,  and  the  fires  were 

rising  fast ; 
When  thy  noble  father  bounded  to  the  rescue  of  his  men. 
And  the  slogan  of  our  kindred  pealed  throughout  the  startled 

glen  ,^ 
When  the  herd  of  frantic  women  stumbled  through  the  mid- 
night snow. 
With  their  fathers'  houses  blazing,  and  their  dearest  dead  below  ! 
O,  the  horror  of  the  tempest,  as  the  flashing  drift  was  blown, 
Crimsoned  with  the  conflagration,  and  the  roofs  went  thunder- 
ing down  ! 


77//;  iiii>>ir  <if  (jLLMuj:.  333 

0,  the  prayers,  tho  prayers  and  curses,  that  together  winged 
their  flight 

From  the  maddened  hearts  of  many,  through  that  long  and 
woful  night ! 

Till  the  fires  began  to  dwindle,  and  the  shots  grew  faint  and  few. 

And  wo  heard  the  foeman's  challenge  only  in  a  far  halloo  : 

Till  the  silence  once  more  settled  o'er  the  gorges  of  the  glen. 

Broken  only  by  the  Cona  plunging  through  its  naked  den. 

Slowly  from  the  mountain  summit  was  the  drifting  veil  with- 
drawn. 

And  the  ghastly  valley  glimmered  in  the  gray  December  dawn. 

Better  had  the  morning  never  dawned  upon  our  dark  despair ! 

Black  amidst  the  common  whiteness  rose  the  spectral  ruins 
there : 

But  the  sight  of  these  was  nothing  more  than  wrings  the  wild 
dove's  bi-east, 

When  she  searches  for  her  offspring  round  the  relics  of  her  nest. 

For  in  many  a  spot  the  tartan  peered  above  the  wintry  heap, 

Marking  where  a  dead  Macdonald  lay  within  his  frozen  sleep. 

Trcmblingly  we  scooped  the  covering  from  each  kindred  vic- 
tim's head. 

And  the  living  lips  were  burning  on  tho  cold  ones  of  the  dead. 

And  I  left  them  with  their  dearest,  —  dearest  charge  had  every 
one,  — 

Left  the  maiden  with  her  lover,  left  the  mother  with  her  son. 

I  alone  of  all  was  mateless,  —  far  more  wretched  I  than  they, 

For  the  snow  would  not  discover  where  my  lord  and  husband  lay. 

liut  I  wandered  up  the  valley,  till  I  found  him  lying  low. 

With  the  gash  upon  his  bosom,  and  the  fi-own  upon  his  brow,  — 

Till  I  found  him  lying  murdered  where  he  wooed  me  long  ago  ! 

Woman's  weakness  shall  not  shame  me,  —  why  should  I  have 

tears  to  shed  1 
Could  I  rain  them  down  like  water,  0  my  hero !  on  thy  head, 
Could  tlie  cry  of  lamentation  wake  thee  from  thy  silent  sleep. 


334  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

CouM  it  set  thy  heart  a-throbbing,  it  were  mine  to  wail  and 

weep ! 
But  I  will  not  waste  ray  sorrow,  lest  the  Campbell  women  say 
That  the  daughters  of  Clanranald  are  as  weak  and  frail  as  they. 
I  had  wept  thee,  hadst  thou  fallen,  like  our  fathers,  on  thy 

shield, 
When  a  host  of  English  foemen  camped  upon  a  Scottish  field,  — 
I  had  mourned  thee,  hadst  thou  perished  with  the  foremost  of 

his  name, 
When  the  valiant  and  the  noble  died  around  the  dauntless 

Graeme! 
But  I  will  not  wrong  thee,  husband,  with  my  unavailing  cries. 
Whilst  thy  cold  and  mangled  body,  stricken  by  the  traitor,  lies ; 
Whilst  he  counts  the  gold  and  glory  that  this  hideous  night 

has  won. 
And  his  heart  is  big  with  triumph  at  the  murder  lie  has  done. 
Other  eyes  than  mine  shall  glisten,  other  hearts  be  rent  in  twain, 
Ere  the  heath-bells  on  thy  hillock  wither  in  the  autumn  rain. 
Then  I  '11  seek  thee  where  thou  sleepest,  and  I  '11  veil  my  weary 

head. 
Praying  for  a  place  beside  thee,  dearer  than  my  bridal-bed  : 
And  I  '11  give  thee  tears,  my  husband,  if  the  tears  remain  to  me, 
When  the  widows  of  the  foeman  cry  the  coranach*  for  thee  I 


LXXVL  — THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM. 

BRYANT. 

HERE  are  old  trees  —  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines  — 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;  here  the  ground 
Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.     It  is  sweet 

•  A  lamentation  for  the  dead. 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM,  335 

To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 

And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 

That  shako  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 

A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  tliickly  set 

With  pale  blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful  shades  — 

Peaceful,  unpruncti,  immeasurably  old  — 

My  thoughts  go  up  the  long,  dim  path  of  years, 

Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

0  Freetlom,  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 

A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs. 

And  wavy  tresses,  gushing  from  the  cap 

With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 

When  he  took  off  the  gyves  !     A  bearded  man, 

Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed  hand 

Grasiis  the  bixmd  shield,  and  one  the  sword  ;  thy  brow. 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 

With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive  limbs 

Are  strong  with  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  launched 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee ; 

They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  Heaven. 

Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep. 

And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires. 

Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet  while  he  deems  thee  bound. 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 

Fall  outward  ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth. 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  i)ile, 

Antl  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 

Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands  ; 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  ])leasant  liclds, 
AVhile  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock,  and  watch  the  stars. 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 


336  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Thou,  by  his  side,  mid  the  tangled  wood. 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf. 
His  only  foes  ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain-side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverened  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
li  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  ho  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye. 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 

But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age ; 

Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his  snares, 

And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 

His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 

His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 

Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  .fair  and  gallant  mien, 

To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  utter  graceful  words 

To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 

Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 

That  grow  to  fetters,  or  bind  down  thy  arms 

With  chains  concealed  in  cliaplets. 

0,  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  swoixl  ;  nor  yet,  0  Freedom,  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber  ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven  !     But  wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men. 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
AVere  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth. 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS,  337 


lA'XVTT— THE  PILGRHr   FATHERS. 

8PRA0UE. 

Charlu  SPRAonE  waa  born  in  Boston,  October  25.  1791,  and  has  constantly  re- 
sided here.  He  made  himself  first  known  as  a  poet  by  several  prize  prologues  at  the 
u)ieniiit;  uf  Uieatrea,  which  Iiad  a  polish  of  numbers  and  a  vigor  of  expresuion  uot 
uflen  found  in  coini>oaition  of  this  class.  In  1823  he  was  the  successful  competitor 
for  A  prise  offered  lor  the  bext  ode  to  be  recited  at  a  Shakesiieare  pageant  at  the  Boston 
Tlieatre.  This  is  the  most  fervid  and  brilliant  of  all  his  poems,  and  has  muclrt)f  the 
lyric  rash  and  glow.  In  1829  he  recited  a  poem  called  "  Curiosity,"  before  the  Phi 
Beta  KapiM  Society  of  Harvard  College,  which  is  polished  in  its  versification,  and 
tilled  with  carefully  wrought  and  beautiful  pictures.  In  1830  he  pronounced  an  ode 
at  the  centennial  celebration  of  the  settlement  of  Boston  (from  which  the  following 
extract  is  taken),  which  is  a  finished  and  animated  performance.  He  has  also  written 
many  smaller  pieces  of  much  merit. ' 

Mr.  Sprague  presents  an  encouraging  example  of  the  union  of  practical  business 
habits  with  the  taste  of  a  scholar  and  the  sensibilities  of  a  i>oet.  He  was  for  many 
years  cashier  of  a  bank,  and  performed  his  prosaic  duties  with  as  much  attentiveneaa 
and  skill  as  if  he  had  never  written  a  line  of  verse. 

BEHOLD  !  they  come,  —  those  sainted  forms, 
Unshaken  through  the  strife  of  storms  ; 
Heaven's  winter  cloud  hangs  coldly  down, 
And  earth  puts  on  its  rudest  frown ; 
But  colder,  ruder,  was  the  hand 
That  drove  them  from  their  own  fair  land  ; 
Their  own  fair  land,  —  Refinement's  chosen  seat. 
Art's  tropliied  dwelling.  Learning's  green  retreat,  — 
By  valor  guarded,  and  by  victory  crowned. 
For  all,  but  gentle  Charity,  renowned. , 
With  streaming  eye  yet  steadfast  heart. 
Even  from  that  land  they  dared  to  part, 

And  burst  each  tender  tie,  — 
Haunts,  where  their  sunny  youth  was  passed  ; 
Homes,  where  they  fondly  hoped  at  last 

In  peaceful  age  to  die  ; 
Friends,  kindred,  comfort,  all,  they  spurned  ; 

Their  fathers'  hallowed  graves; 
And  to  a  world  of  darkness  turned. 
Beyond  a  world  of  wmvc^s. 


338  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

When  Israel's  race  from  bondage  fled, 
Signs  from  on  high  the  wanderers  led ; 
But  here  —  Heaven  hung  no  symbol  here, 
Their  steps  to  guide,  their  souls  to  cheer ; 
They  saw,  through  sorrow's  lengthening  night. 
Nought  but  the  fagot's  guilty  light ; 
The  cloud  they  gazed  at  was  the  smoke 
That  round  their  murdered  brethren  broke. 

A  fearful  jmth  they  trod, 
And  dared  a  fearful  doom, 

To  build  an  altar  to  their  God, 
And  hnd  a  quiet  tomb. 

They  come  ;  —  that  coming  who  shall  tell  1 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings  : 
The  sweUing  triumph  all  would  share. 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  woe 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow  1 
It  were  an  envied  fate,  we  deem. 
To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme, 

When  we  are  in  the  tomb ; 
We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home, 
And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam. 

And  tread  a  shore  of  gloom,  — 
Knew  we  those  waves,  through  coming  time. 
Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clime  ; 
Felt  we  that  niilHons  on  that  shore 
Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore. 
But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 
Upon  the  Pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  339 

Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swelled  ; 
Deep  shadows  veiled  the  way  they  held  ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  tlieir  trump  of  fame, 
Their  monument,  a  grave  without  a  name. 
Vet,  strong  in  weakness,  there  they  stand 

On  yonder  ice-bound  rock, 
Stem  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band, 
To  meet  Fate's  rudest  shock. 

In  grateful  adoration  now, 

Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 

What  tongue  e'er  woke  such  prayer 

As  bursts  in  desolation  there  1 

What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power 

As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour  1 
There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs  ! 

There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 

There  Liberty's  young  accents  roll 
Up  to  the  King  of  kings  ! 

To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound 

That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound; 

The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake, 
And  to  their  centre  earth's  old  kingdoms  shake ; 
Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 
Must  crumble  from  that  day  : 

Before  the  loftier  throne  of  Heaven 

The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given, 
One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own,  — 
That  monarch,  Grod  ;  that  creed,  his  word  alone. 

Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear ; 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell  1 

On  kingdoms  built 

In  blood  and  guilt. 


340  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  vorshippers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell ; 
But  what  exploit  with  theirs  shall  page, 
Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind,  — 
Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age, 
Man's  spirit  to  unbind  ? 
Who  boundless  seas  passed  o*er. 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  savage  wrath. 
To  dedicate  a  shore, 
Where  Piety's  meek  train  might  breathe  their  vow, 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  unshamed  brow ; 
Where  Liberty's  glad  race  might  j)roudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home  1 

0  many  a  time  it  hath  been  told. 
The  story  of  these  men  of  old  ! 
For  this  fair  Poetry  hath  wreathed 

Her  sweetest,  purest  flower ; 
For  this  proud  Eloquence  had  breathed 

His  strain  of  loftiest  power ; 
Devotion,  too,  hath  lingered  round 
Each  spot  of  consecrated  ground. 

And  hill  and  valley  blessed,  — 
There,  where  our  banished  fathers  strayed. 
There,  where  they  loved  and  wept  and  prayed. 

There,  where  their  ashes  rest,  — 
And  never  may  they  rest  unsung. 
While  Liberty  can  tind  a  tongue. 
Twine,  Gratitude,  a  wreath  for  them 
More  deathless  than  the  diadem. 
Who,  to  life's  noblest  end, 

Gave  up  life's  noblest  powers, 
And  bade  the  legacy  descend 

Down,  down  to  us  and  ours. 


IVOLSEY  AND  CKOMJVELL.  341 

LXXVIIL— WOLSEY  AND   CROMWELL 

SHAKESPEARE. 

TiTB  following  scene  is  taken  from  the  historical  play  of  "  King  Henry  VIII." 
Cardinal  Wobtey  had  l>een  ))rime  miuister  of  En^^land,  the  possessor  of  enormous 
wealth  and  unltounded  power,  but,  in  losing  the  favor  of  the  king,  had  lost  alL  Crom- 
well was  n  friend  and  member  of  his  household,  who  remained  faithfUl  to  his  benefac- 
tor in  his  fallen  fortuues. 

WOL.    Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  To-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope  ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost, 
And  —  when  ho  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening  —  nips  his  root ; 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders. 
This  many  summers,  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me,  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye  : 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened.     O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin,* 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have  ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
N.  vrr  to  hope  again.  — 

Eyitrr  Croitwell,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 
Cbom.    I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

*  That  is,  the  min  which  princes  inflict 


342  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

WoL.  What,  amazed 

At  ray  misfortunes  9     Can  thy  spirit  wonder 
A  great  man  should  decline  1     Nay,  and  you  weep 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  1 

WoL.  Why,  well ; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  CromwelL 
I  know  myself  now  ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  eai-thly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cured  me,  — 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace,  —  and  from  these  shoulders, 
These  ruined  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  —  too  much  honor. 
O,  't  is  a  burden,  Cromwell,  't  is  a  burden 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  \io\yes  for  heaven  ! 

Crom.    I  am  glad  your  grace  has  made  that  right  use  of  it. 

WoL.    I  hope  I  have.     I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far, 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  oifer. 
What  news  abroad  1 

Crom.  The  heaviest,  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasure  with  the  king. 

Woi^  God  bless  him  ! 

Crom.    The  next  is,  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosen 
Lord  Chancellor,  in  your  place. 

WoL.  That 's  somewhat  sudden  ; 

But  he  's  a  learned  man.     May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  Highness's  favor,  and  do  justice 
For  truth's  sake,  and  his  conscience ;  that  his  bones. 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em ! 
What  more  ] 

Crom.  That  Cranmer  is  returned  with  welcome, 

Installed  Lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbuiy. 


WOLSKY  AND  CROMWELL  343 

WoL.   Tliat  *8  news,  indeed. 

Crom.  Last,  that  the  Lady  Anne,* 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  viewed  in  open,  as  his  queen, 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

WoL.    There  was  the  weight  that  pulled  me   down !     0 
Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me  ;  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  forever ! 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honors, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell ; 
I  am  a  jKwr,  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master.     Seek  the  king : 
That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !     I  have  told  him 
Wliat  and  how  true  thou  art ;  he  will  advance  thee ; 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him 
(I  know  his  noble  nature)  not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too.     Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not ;  make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?     Must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master? 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. 
The  king  shall  have  my  service  ;  but  my  prayers 
Forever,  and  forever,  shall  be  yours. 

WoL.    Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  hut  thou  hast  forced  me. 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  ;  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
And  —  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 

•  Anne  Boleyn,  the  second  wife  of  King  Henry  VIII. 


344  THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 

Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of — say,  I  taught  thee  ; 

Say,  Wolsey  —  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor  — 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 

Cromwell,  1  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  : 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels :  how  can  man,  then. 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  *t  1 

Love  thyself  last ;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee ; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty  : 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 

To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not. 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's. 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's ;  then,  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessetl  martyr !     Serve  the  king ; 

And  —     Prithee,  lead  me  ui : 

There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny  ;  *t  is  the  king's ;  my  robe, 

And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 

Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 

I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies ! 

Crom.    Grood  sir,  have  patience. 

WoL.  So  I  have.     Farewell 

The  hopes  of  court !  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell 


DANGERS  TO  OUR  REPUBLIC.  345 

LXXIX  — DANGERS  TO  OUR  REPUBLIC. 

HORACE  MANN. 

The  following  is  an  extract  trom  an  oration  delivered  July  4, 1842,  before  the  au- 
thorities of  Boston. 

BEHOLD,  on  this  side,  crowding  to  the  polls,  and 
even  candidates  for  the  highest  offices  in  the  gift  of 
the  people,  are  men  whose  hands  are  red  with  a  brother's 
blood,  slain  in  private  quarrel !  Close  pressing  upon  these 
urges  onward  a  haughty  band  glittering  in  wealth ;  but, 
for  every  flash  that  gleams  from  jewel  and  diamond,  a 
father,  a  mother,  and  helpless  children  have  been  stolen, 
and  sold  into  ransomless  bondage. 

Invading  their  ranks,  stmggles  forward  a  troop  of  riot- 
ous incendiaries,  who  have  hitherto  escaped  the  retribu- 
tions of  law,  and  would  now  annihilate  the  law  whose 

« 

judgments  they  fear.  Behind  these  pours  on,  tunniltuous, 
the  chaotic  rout  of  atheism ;  and  yonder  dashes  forward 
a  sea  of  remorseless  life,  —  thousands  and  ten  thousands, 
—  condemned  by  the  laws- of  God  and  man. 

In  all  the  dread  catalogue  of  mortal  sins,  there  is  not 
one  but,  in  that  host,  there  are  hearts  which  have  willed 
and  hands  which  have  perpetrated  it. 

The  gallows  has  spared  its  victim,  the  prison  has  released 
its  tenants ;  from  dark  cells,  where  malice  had  brooded, 
where  revenge  and  robbery  had  held  their  nightly  rehear- 
sals, the  leprous  multitude  is  disgorged,  and  comes  up  to 
the  ballot-box  to  foredoom  the  destinies  of  this  nation. 

But  look  again,  on  the  other  side,  at  that  deep  and 
dense  array  of  ignorance,  whose  limits  the  eye  cannot 
discover.  Its  van  leans  against  us  here,  its  rear  is  beyond 
the  distant  hills.     They,  ton.  in  this  hour  of  their  coun- 


346  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

try's  peril,  have  come  up  to  turn  the  folly  of  which  they 
are  unconscious  into  measures  which  they  cannot  under- 
stand, by  votes  which  they  cannot  read.  Nay  more,  and 
worse !  for,  from  the  ranks  of  crime,  emissaries  are  sally- 
ing forth  towards  the  ranks  of  ignorance,  and  hying  to 
and  fro  amongst  them,  shouting  the  war-cries  of  faction, 
and  flaunting  banners  with  lying  symbols,  such  as  cheat 
the  eye  of  a  mindless  brain ;  and  thus  the  hosts  of  crime 
are  to  lead  on  the  hosts  of  ignorance  in  their  assault  upon 
Liberty  and  Law ! 

What  now  shall  be  done  to  save  the  citadel  of  freedom, 
where  are  treasured  all  the  hopes  of  posterity  ?  Or,  if  we 
can  survive  the  peril  of  such  a  day,  what  shall  be  done  to 
prevent  the  next  generation  from  sending  forth  still  more 
numerous  hordes,  afflicted  witli  (h^ejx'r  blindness  and  in- 
cited by  darker  depravity  '. 

Are  there  any  here  who  would  counsel  us  to  save  the 
people  from  themselves,  by  wresting  from  their  hands 
this  formidable  right  of  ballot  ?  Better  for  the  man  who 
would  propose  this  remedy  to  an  infuriated  multitude, 
that  he  should  stand  in  the  lightning's  path  as  it  descends 
from  heaven  to  earth. 

And  answer  me  this  question,  you  who  would  recon- 
quer for  the  few  the  power  which  has  been  won  by  the 
many,  —  you  who  would  disfranchise  the  common  mass  of 
mankind,  and  recondemn  them  to  become  Helots  and 
bondmen  and  feudal  serfs,  —  tell  me  were  they  again  in 
the  power  of  your  castes,  would  you  not  again  neglect 
them,  again  oppress  them,  again  make  them  slaves  ? 

Tell  me,  you  royalists  and  hierarchs,  or  advocates  of 
royalty  and  hierarchy,  were  the  poor  and  the  ignorant 
again  in  your  power,  to  be  tasked  and  tithed  at  your 
pleasure,  would  you  not  turn  another  Ireland  into  paupers, 
and  colonize  another  Botany  Bay  with  criminals  ? 


HALLOWED  GROUND.  347 

O,  better,  far  better,  that  the  atheist  and  the  blasphemer, 
and  he  who,  since  the  last  setting  sun,  has  dyed  his  hands 
in  parricide,  or  his  soul  in  sacrilege,  should  challenge 
equal  political  power  with  the  wisest  and  the  best! 

Better  that  these  blind  Samsons,  in  the  wantonness  of 
their  gigantic  strength,  should  tear  down  the  pillars  of 
the  Republic,  than  that  the  great  lesson  which  Heaven, 
for  six  thousand  years,  has  been  teaching  to  the  world, 
should  be  lost  upon  it,  —  the  lesson  that  the  intellectual 
and  moral  nature  of  man  is  the  one  thing  precious  in  the 
sight  of  God,  and  therefore  that,  until  this  natui-e  is 
cultivated  and  enlightened  and  purified,  neither  opu- 
lence nor  power,  nor  learning  nor  genius,  nor  domestic 
sanctity  nor  the  holiness  of  God's  altars,  can  ever  be  safe. 

Until  the  immortal  and  godlike  capacities  of  every 
being  that  comes  into  the  world  are  deemed  more  worthy, 
are  watched  more  tenderly,  than  any  other  thing,  no 
dynasty  of  men,  or  form  of  government,  can  stand  or 
shall  stand  upon  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  the  force 
or  the  fraud  which  would  seek  to  uphold  them  shall  be 
but  "  as  fetters  of  flax  to  bind  the  flame." 


TA'XX.  —  HALLOWED   GROUND. 

CAMPBELL. 

WHAT  's  hallowed  ground  ]     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
I'nscouri^d  by  Superstition's  rod 
To  bow  the  knee  1 


348  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

Is  *t  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  1 
He  's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws. 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  !  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space  ! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  fece, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  !  but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeaL 

O  God  above ! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not : 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  1 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt 
Tliat  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

AVith  chime  or  chant. 


HALLOWED  GROUND.  349 

The  ticking  woodworm  mock  thee,  man ! 
Thy  temples  —  creeds  themselves  grow  wan, 
But  there  's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban,  — 

Its  space  is  Heaven  ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling. 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling. 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing. 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  in  the  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ] 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  1 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ] 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love  I 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What 's  hallowed  ground  1     'T  is  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  !  — 
Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ; 
And  your  high-prie«thood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground  t 


35a  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

LXXXL  — THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE. 

AYTOUN. 

The  following  extract  i«  from  the  "  Lays  of  the  Scotch  Cavaliers,"  a  collection  of 
stirring  ballads  illiuttrating  the  history  of  ik'otland. 

James  Graliam,  Marquis  of  Montrose,  was  executed  in  Edinburgh,  May  21,  1850, 
for  an  attempt  to  overthrow  the  power  of  the  Coninionweulth,  and  restore  Charles  II. 
The  balla<l  is  a  narrative  of  the  event,  8up]»osed  to  be  related  by  an  aged  Highlander, 
who  had  followed  Montrose  Uiroughout  his  campaigns,  to  his  grandson,  Evan  Came- 
ron. Lochaber  is  a  district  of  Scotland  in  the  southwestern  part  of  tl>e  county  of 
Inverness.  Dundee  Is  a  seaport  town  in  the  county  of  Forfar.  Inverlochy  was  a 
castle  in  Inverness-shire.  If<»ntr08e  was  betrayed  by  a  man  named  MacLeod  of  As- 
synt.  Dunedin  is  tlie  Gaelic  name  fbr  Edinburgh.  Warristoun  was  Archibald  John- 
ston of  Warristoun,  an  inveterate  enemy  of  MonCrase. 

COME  hither,   Evan  Cameron  !     Come,  stand  beside  my 
kriee : 
I  hear  the  river  roaring  down  towards  the  \^4ntry  sea ; 
There  's  shouting  on  the  mountain-side,  there  's  war  within  the 

blast. 
Old  faces  look  upon  me,  old  forms  go  trooping  past ; 
I  hear  the  pibroch*  wailing  amidst  the  din  of  tight, 
And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again  upon  the  verge  of  niglit. 

'T  was  I  that  led  the  Highland  host  through  wild  Lochaber's 
snows. 

What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  do\vn  to  battle  with  Mon- 
trose. 

I  've  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell  beneath  the  broad  clay- 
more, 

And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan  by  Inverlochy's 
shore. 

I  've  tcld  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee,  and  tamed  the  Lindsay's 
pride ; 

But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet  how  the  Great  Marquis 
died  ! 

•  An  air  played  on  the  bagpipe  before  the  Highlanders,  when  they  go  out 
to  battle. 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE.  351 

A  traitor  sold  liim  to  his  foes,  —  0  deed  of  deathless  shame ! 
1  charge  thee,   boy,   if  e'er  thou  meet  with  one  of  Assjnt's 

name,  — 
Be  it  upon  the  mountain's  side,  or  yet  within  the  glen. 
Stand  he  in  uiartial  gear  alone,  or  backed  by  armc^d  men,  — 
Face  him,  as  thou  wouldst  face   the  man  who  wronged  thy 

sire's  renown ; 
"RonifiiiiLtT  (if  wliiit  blood  tlioii  art.  and  strikn  the  caitiff  dowiu 

i  ney  Droii^iii  luiji  to  tlie  Watergate,  liard  l)ound  with  hempen 

span, 
As  though  they  held  a  lion  there,  and  not  an  unarmed  man. 
They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart,  —  the  hangman  rode  below,  — 
They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  bared  his  noble 

br«3w: 
Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipped  from  leash,  they  cheered,  —  the 

common  throng,  — 
And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout,  and  bade  him  pass  along. 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan,  he  looked  so  great 

and  high. 
So  noble  was  his  manly  front,  so  calm  his  steadfast  eye. 
The  rabble  rout  forbore  to  shout,  and  each  man  held  his  breath. 
For  well  they  knew  the  hero's  soul  was  face  to  face  with  dcmth. 
And  then  a  mournful  shudder  through  all  the  people  crept. 
And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him  now  turned  aside  and  wept. 

Had  I  l>een  there  with  sword  in  hand,  and  fifty  Caraerons  by, 
That  dav  tliroU'.di  liiudi  Dunedin's  streets  liad  pcided  the  sloLran* 

Nut  aii  their  troops  ot  trampling  horse,  nor  might  of  mailed  men. 
Not  all  the  relx'ls  in  the  South,  had  borne  us  backwards  then  ! 
Once  more  his  foot  on  Hip^hland  heath  had  trod  as  free  as  air, 
'»"  !     ■••  '  ••'!  wlio  bore  my  name,  been  laid  around  him  there. 

•    The  war-fTV  of  a  cloil. 


352  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

It  miglit  not  be.     They  placed  him  next  within  the  solemn  hall, 
Where  •  once  the   ScoTlish   kings    were   throned  amidst  their 

nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet  on  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjured  traitors  filled  the  place  where  good  men  sat  before. 
With  savage  glee  came  Warristoun  to  read  the  murderous  doom. 
And  then  uprose  the  great  Montrose  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Now  by  my  faith  as  belted  knight,  and  by  the  name  I  bear, 
And  by  the  bright  Saint  Andrew's  cross  that  waves  above  us 

there,  — 
Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath,  and  0,  that  such  should  be ! 
By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood  that  lies  *twixt  you  and 

me,  — 
I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field  a  wreath  of  such  renown, 
Nor  hoped  I,  on  my  dying  day,  to  win  a  martyr's  crown  ! 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly,  the  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt  lit  up  the  gloomy  town  : 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven,  the  fatal  hour  was  come. 
Yet  aye  broke  in,  with  muffled  beat,  the  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below,  and  anger  in  the  sky, 
Ann  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor,  came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet !  how  dismal  't  is  to  see 
The  great,  tall,  spectral  skeleton,  the  ladder,  and  the  tree ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms,  the  bells  begin  to  toll,  — 
He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  !  God's  mercy  on  his  soul ! 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder,  —  the  clouds  are  cleared  away. 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down  amidst  the  dazzling 
day. 

He  is  coming !   he  is  coming !  —  Like  a  bridegroom  from  his 

room 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison  to  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 


M 


AMERICAN  NATIONALITY.  353 

There  was  glory  on  his  forehead » there  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walked  to  battle  more  proudly  than  to  die  : 
There  was  color  in  his  visage,  though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan, 
And  they  marvelled  as  they  saw  him  pass,  that  great  and  goodly 
man  ! 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him,  like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder,  as  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud,  and  a  stunning  thunder 

roll,  ^ 

And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft,  for  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound,  a  hush  and  then  a  groan  ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky,  —  the  work  of  death  was 

done! 


LXXXII.  —  AMERICAN  NATIONALITY. 

CHOATE. 

Rtmrs  Choats  waa  bora  in  Essex,  Massachusetts,  October  1,  1799  ;  and  died  July 
13,  1859.  He  was  graduated  at  Dartmouth  CoII^e  in  1819,  and  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1824.  He  practised  his  profession  first  at  Danvers.  then  at  Salem,  and  for  the  last 
twenty-flve  years  of  his  life  at  Boston.  He  was  chosen  to  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives in  1832,  and  served  there  a  single  tenn.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Senate  from 
February,  1841,  to  Marrh.  1845  He  was  a  brilliant  and  eloquent  advocate,  with  un- 
rivalled power  over  a  jury,  a  thoroughly  instnicte<l  lawyer,  and  a  scholar  of  wide 
range  and  various  cultivation.  His  writings,  consisting  of  lectures,  addresses,  and 
speeches,  are  distinguished  by  a  combination  of  logical  power  and  imaginative  splen- 
dor. The  following  extract  is  from  an  oration  deliverwl  in  Boston  on  the  eighty- 
second  anniversary  of  American  Independence,  July  5,  1858. 

BUT  now,  by  the  side  of  this  and  all  antagonisms 
higher  than  they,  stronger  than  they,  there  rises 
colossal  the  fine,  sweet  spirit  of  nationality,  —  the  nation- 
ality of  America.  See  there  the  pillar  of  fire  which  God 
has  kindled,  and  lifted,  and  moved,  for  our  hosts  and 
our  aj^ea.  Gaze  on  that,  worship  that,  worship  the 
hi|.;hest  in  that 


So-i  THE  aiXTH  READER, 

Between  that  light  and  our  eyes  a  cloud  for  a  time 
may  seem  to  gather;  chariots,  armed  men  on  foot,  the 
troops  of  kings,  may  march  on  us,  and  our  fears  may 
make  us  for  a  moment  turn  from  it ;  a  sea  may  spread 
before  us,  and  waves  seem  to  hedge  us  up ;  dark  idolatries 
may  alienate  some  hearts  for  a  season  from  that  worship ; 
revolt,  rebellion,  may  break  out  in  the  camp,  and  the  wa- 
ters of  our  springs  may  i*un  bitter  to  the  taste,  and  mock 
it ;  between  us  and  that  Canaan  a  great  river  may  seem 
to  be  rolling :  but  beneath  that  high  guidance  our  way  is 
onward,  ever  onwai-d. 

Those  waters  shall  part,  and  stand  on  either  hand  in 
heaps  ;  that  idolatry  shall  repent ;  that  rebellion  shall  be 
crushed ;  that  stream  shall  be  sweetened  ;  that  overflowing 
river  shall  be  passed  on  foot,  dry-shod,  in  harvest-time ; 
and  from  that  promised  land  of  flocks,  fields,  tents,  moun- 
tains, coasts,  and  ships,  from  north  and  south,  and  east 
and  west,  there  shall  swell  one  cry  yet  of  victory,  peace, 
and  thanksgiving! 

But  we  were  seeking  the  nature  of  the  spirit  of  nation- 
ality, and  we  pass  in  this  inquiry  from  contrast  to  anal- 
ysis. You  may  call  it,  in  one  aspect,  a  mode  of  con- 
templating the  nation  in  its  essence,  and  so  far  it  is  an 
intellectual  conception ;  and  you  may  call  it  a  feeling 
towards  the  nation  thus  contemplated,  and  so  far  it  is  an 
emotion.  In  the  intellectual  exercise,  it  contemplates 
the  nation  as  it  is  one,  and  as  it  is  distinguished  from  all 
other  nations ;  and  in  the  emotional  exercise  it  loves  it, 
and  is  proud  of  it,  as  thus  it  is  contemplated 

This  you  may  call  its  ultimate  analysis.  But  how  much 
more  is  included  in  it !  How  much  flows  from  it !  How 
cold  and  inadequate  is  such  a  description,  if  we  leave  it 
there !     Think  of  it  first  as  a  state  of  consciousness,  as 


AMERICAN  NATIONALITY.  355 

a  spring  of  feeling,  as  a  motive  to  exertion,  as  blessing 
your  country,  and  as  reacting  on  you !  Think  of  it  as 
it  fills  your  mind  and  quickens  your  heait,  and  as  it 
fills  the  mind  and  quickens  the  heart  of  millions  around 
you ! 

Instantly,  under  such  an  influence,  you  ascend  above 
the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  small  local  strife ;  you  ti-ead 
upon  the  high  places  of  the  earth  and  of  history;  you 
think  and  feel  as  an  American  for  America ;  her  power, 
her  eminence,  her  consideration,  her  honor,  are  yours; 
your  competitors,  like  hers,  are  kings;  your  home,  like 
hers,  is  the  world  ;  your  i>ath,  like  hers,  is  on  the  highway 
of  empires ;  your  charge,  her  charge,  is  of  generations  and 
ages ;  your  record,  her  record,  is  of  treaties,  battles,  voy- 
ages, beneath  all  the  constellations ;  her  image,  one,  im- 
mortal, golden,  rises  on  your  eye  as  our  western  star  at 
evening  rises  on  the  traveller  from  his  home ;  no  lowering 
cloud,  no  angry  river,  no  lingering  spring,  no  broken  cre- 
vasse, no  inundated  city  or  plantation,  no  tracts  of  sand, 
arid  and  burning  on  that  surface,  but  all  blended  and  soft- 
ened into  one  beam  of  kindred  rays,  the  image,  harbinger, 
and  promise  of  love,  hope,  and  a  brighter  day  ! 

But  if  you  would  contemplate  nationality  as  an  active 
virtue,  look  around  you.  Is  not  our  own  history  one  wit- 
ness and  one  record  of  what  it  can  do  ?  This  day  and 
all  which  it  stands  for,  —  did  it  not  give  us  these  ?  This 
glory  of  the  fields  of  that  war,  this  eloquence  of  that  revo- 
lution, this  one  wide  sheet  of  flame,  which  wrapped  tyrant 
and  tyranny,  and  swept  all  that  escaped  from  it  away, 
forever  and  forever;  the  courage  to  fight,  to  retreat,  to 
rally,  to  advance,  to  guard  the  young  flag  by  the  young 
arm  and  the  young  heart's  blood,  to  hold  up  and  hold  on, 
till  the  magnificent  ((nisumination  crowned  the  work, — 


356  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

were  not  all  these  impaired  or  inspired  by  this  imperial 
sentiment  ? 

Has  it  not  here  begun  the  master-work  of  man,  the 
creation  of  a  national  life  ?  Did  it  not  call  out  that  pro- 
digious development  of  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  con- 
structiveness  which  illustrated  the  years  after  the  war, 
and  the  framing  and  adopting  of  the  Constitution  ?  Has 
it  not,  in  general,  contributed  to  the  administering  of  that 
government  wisely  and  well  since  ? 

Look  at  it !  It  has  kindled  us  to  no  aims  of  conquest. 
It  has  involved  us  in  no  entangling  alliances.  It  has  kept 
our  neutrality  dignified  and  just.  The  victories  of  peace 
have  been  our  prized  victories.  But  the  larger  and  truer 
grandeur  of  the  nations,  for  which  they  are  created,  and 
for  which  they  must  one  day,  before  some  tribunal,  give 
account,  what  a  measure  of  these  it  has  enabled  us  already 
to  fulfil !  It  has  lifted  us  to  the  throne,  and  has  set  on 
our  brow  the  name  of  the  Great  Republic.  It  has  taught 
us  to  demand  nothing  wrong,  and  to  submit  to  nothing 
wrong ;  it  has  made  our  diplomacy  sagacious,  wary,  and 
accomplished ;  it  has  opened  the  iron  gate  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  planted  our  ensign  on  the  great  tranquil  sea. 

It  has  made  the  desert  to  bud  and  blossom  as  the  rose ; 
it  has  quickened  to  life  the  giant  brood  of  useful  arts ;  it 
has  whitened  lake  and  ocean  with  the  sails  of  a  daring, 
new,  and  lawful  trade ;  it  has  extended  to  exiles,  flying  as 
clouds,  the  asylum  of  our  better  liberty. 

It  has  kept  us  at  rest  within  all  our  borders ;  it  has 
repressed  without  blood  the  intemperance  of  local  insubor- 
dination ;  it  has  scattered  the  seeds  of  liberty,  under  kw 
and  under  order,  broadcast ;  it  has  seen  and  helped  Amer- 
ican feeling  to  swell  into  a  fuller  flood  ;  from  many  a  field 
and  many  a  deck,  though  it  seeks  not  war,  makes  not 


THE  RISING  IN   /  7'  357 

war,  and  fears  not  war,  it  has  borne  the  radiant  flag,  all 
unstained ;  it  has  opened  our  age  of  lettered  glory ;  it 
has  opened  and  honored  the  age  of  the  industry  of  the 
people! 


LXXXIIL  — THE   RISING   IN   1776. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN   READ. 

Tbomab  BiKTHAXASi  Reao  wm  bom  iu  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  March  12, 
/82*2.  He  U  a  portrait-iJaiuter  by  profession,  but  has  published  several  volumes  of 
poetry,  among  which  are  many  pieces  of  decided  merit.  He  has  also  edited  a  work 
entitled  '*  Specimens  of  the  Female  Poets  of  America." 

OUT  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  tlie  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 
And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrilTnote,  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet ; 
While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington ; 
And  Conconl,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swelled  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkley  Manor  stood  ; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk. 

And  some  esteemed  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Passed  mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  naught ; 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the^ead. 


358  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

How  swopt  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk, 

The  \;ilc  \\  ith  peace  and  sun-hinr  full 
Where  all  the  happy  peoj)!*'  walk, 

Decked  in  their  hon^spun  iiux  and  wool ! 

Where  youth's  gay  hiats  with  blossoms  bloom ; 
And  every  maid,  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast,  lik»^  h^r  own  licuit, 

A  bud  whose  depth-  ar.  all  perfume  ; 
While  every  garment's  gentle  stir 
Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 

The  paf«tor  fame  ;  liis  snowy  looks 

Hallcwnl  hi-  hi'MW  of  iliMii-lit  and  care; 
And  calmly,  as  sli.  [.h.  ids  lead  their  flocks, 

He  led  into  the  huu^e  of  prayer. 
The  pastor  rose ;  the  prayer  was  strong ; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song ; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might,  — 
"  The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right !  " 
He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured  ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  ghw    r  (juak.', 
And,  rising  ^ti  his  theme's  broa<l  wing. 

And  grasping  in  his  nen^ous  hand 

The  imaginary  battle-brand. 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tymnt  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  iVame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude. 
Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher ; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir ; 


THE  RISING  IN  1776.  359 

When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo  !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior  s  guise. 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause,  — 
When  JiiyJUey  cried,  "  Cease,  traitor !  cease ! 
God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace  ! " 

The  other  shouted,  "  Nay,  not  so. 
When  God  is  with  our  rij^iteotis  cause  > 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours. 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers. 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe ; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Fi-eedom's  day, 
There  is  a  time  to  tight  and  pray  ! " 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior  priest  had  ordered  so  — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  roar 
Bang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  r<*verberating  blow. 
So  loud  anil  clear,  it  seemed  the  eai 
Of  dusty  dejith  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life ; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before  : 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease ; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "  War  !  War  !  War  ! " 

"  Who  dares  "  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came  — 

«(•..,..,.  :...*■  ^^,j^),  ,„f,   j„  Fmodom's  name. 


360  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

For  her  to  live,  for  lier  to  die  ] " 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  answered,  "  // " 


LXXXIV.  — GOD. 

DERZHAVIN. 

OxBRrEL  RoMAKOviTCH  Derzhavin,  %  RiimUui  lyiical  poet,  was  bom  In  Kasan, 
July  3,  1743  ;  and  died  July  6,  1816.  He  gained  distinction  in  the  military  and  civil 
service  of  hia  country,  and  was  made  Secretar}'  of  State  in  1791  by  Catherine  II.  The 
following  poem  has  been  translated,  not  only  into  many  Eurni)ean  languages,  but 
into  those  of  China  and  Japan.  It  is  said  to  have  been  hung  up  in  the  palace  of  the 
Eiiii»eror  of  Cliina,  printed  in  gold  letters  on  white  satin.  Sir  John  Bowring,  in  his 
••  Specimens  of  the  Russian  Poets,"  published  in  1821,  was  the  Hrst  person  who  made 
the  readers  of  England  and  America  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Derzhavin  and 
other  Russian  poets. 

OTHOU  eternal-One !  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  : 
Unchanged  through  timers  all  devastating  flight ; 
Thou  only  God  !     There  is  no  God  beside  ! 
Being  above  all  beings  !     Mighty  One ! 
Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 
Who  fill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  : 
Embracing  all,  —  supporting,  —  ruling  o'er,  — 
Being  whom  we  call  God,  —  and  know  no  more ! 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep,  —  may  count 

The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays,  —  but  Grod  !  for  thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure ;  none  can  mount 

Up  to  thy  mysteries.     Reason's  brightest  spark, 

Though  kindle  by  thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 

To  trace  thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high. 

Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 


OOD.  361 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call. 

First  chaos,  then  existence  :  Lord  !  on  thee 

Eternity  had  its  foundation  :  all 

Sprung  forth  from  thee  :  of  light,  joy,  haraiony, 

Sole  origin  :  all  life,  all  beauty  thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be  !     Glorious  !     Great ! 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround, 

Upheld  by  thee,  by  thee  inspired  with  breath ! 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death  ! 

As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  are  bom,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  thee  : 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 

Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  thy  praise. 

A  million  torches  lighted  by  thy  hand 
Wander  unwearied  through  tlie  blue  abyss  : 
They  own  thy  power,  accomplish  thy  command, 
All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  witli  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  *?     Piles  of  crystal  light,  — 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams,  — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  briglit,  — 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  1 
But  thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes  !  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  thee  is  lost. 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  thee  1 

And  wliat  am  /  then  1     Hejiven's  unnum])ered  host, 

Tiiough  multiphed  by  myriads,  aud  arrayed 


362  Tin:  sixth  READER. 

In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance ;  weighed 
Against  thy  greatness,  is  a  ciplier  brought 
Against  infinity  !     0,  wlmt  .\m  I  then  ]     Naught ! 

Naught !  yet  the  effluence  of  thy  light  divine, 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  readied  my  bosom  too ; 

Yes !  in  my  spirit  doth  thy  spirit  shine, 

As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught !  yet  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 

Eager  towards  thy  presence  ;  for  in  thee 

I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high. 

Even  to  the  throne  of  thy  divinity. 

I  am,  0  God  !  and  surely  thou  must  be  ! 

Thou  art !  directing,  guiding  all,  thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding,  then,  to  thee  ; 

Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart : 

Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity. 

Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  T)y  thy  hand  ! 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth. 

On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  l>eing  stand. 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth; 

Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land  ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost. 
And  the  next  step  is  sptrit,  —  Deity  ! 
I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 
A  monarch,  and  a  slave  ;  a  worm,  a  god  ! 
Whence  came  I  here  ?  and  how  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  1  unknown  !  this  clod 
Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 
For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be ! 


ABOUND   YUSEMITE   l^ALLS.  363 

Creator,  yes !  thy  wisdom  and  thy  word 
Createil  nu  !  thou  source  of  lifo  and  good  ! 
Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 
Thy  light,  thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
Filled  me  with  an  immorttd  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  lUiuth,  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eteruid  day,  and  wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere. 
Even  to  its  source,  —  to  thee,  its  Author  there 

0  thoughts  ineffable  !     0  visions  blest ! 
Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  thee, 
Yet  shall  thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  thy  Deity. 
God  !  thus  alone  my  lonely  thoughts  can  soar ; 
Thus  seek  thy  presence,  Being  wise  and  good  ! 
Midst  thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore ; 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more. 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


LXXXV.  — ABOUND   YOSEMITE  WALLS. 

CLARENCE  KING. 

LATE  in  the  afternoon  of  October  5,  1864,  a  party  of 
us  reached  the  edge  of  Yosemite,*  and,  looking  down 
into  the  valley,  saw  that  the  summer  haze  had  been 
banished  from  the  region  by  autumnal  frosts  and  wind. 
We  looked  in  the  gulf  through  air  as  clear  as  a  vacuum, 
discerning  small  objects  upon  valley-floor  and  cliff-front. 

That  splendid  afternoon  shadow  which  divides  the  face 
of  El  Capitan  was  projected  far  up  and  across  the  valley, 
cutting  it  in  halves,  —  one  a  mosaic  of  russets  and  yellows 

•  Pronounced  Yu-s6m'i-te. 


364  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

with  dark  pine  and  glimpse  of  white  river ;  the  other  a 
cobalt-blue  zone,  in  which  the  familiar  groves  and  mead- 
ows were  suffused  with  shadow-tones. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  a  more  pointed  contrast  than  this 
same  view  in  October  and  June.  Then,  through  a  slum- 
berous yet  transparent  atmosphere,  you  look  down  upon 
emerald  freshness  of  green,  upon  arrowy  rush  of  swollen 
river,  and  here  and  there,  along  pearly  cliffs,  as  from  the 
clouds,  tumbles  white,  silver  dust  of  cataracts.  The  voice 
of  full  soft  winds  swells  up  over  rustling  leaves,  and,  pul- 
sating, throbs  like  the  beating  of  far-off  surf.  All  stern  sub- 
limity, all  geological  terribleness,  are  veiled  away  behind 
magic  curtains  of  cloud-shadow  and  broken  light  Misty 
brightness,  glow  of  cliff  and  sparkle  of  foam,  wealth  of  beau- 
tiful details,  the  charm  of  pearl  and  emerald,  cool  gulfs  of 
violet  shade  stretching  back  in  deep  recesses  of  the  walls, 
—  these  are  the  features  which  lie  under  the  June  sky. 

Now  all  that  has  gone.  The  shattered  fronts  of  walls 
stand  out  sharp  and  terrible,  sweeping  down  in  broken 
crag  and  cliff  to  a  valley  whereon  the  shadow  of  autumnal 
death  has  left  its  solenmity.  There  is  no  longer  an  air 
of  beauty.  In  this  cold,  naked  strength,  one  who  has 
crowded  on  him  the  geological  record  of  mountain  work, 
of  granite  plateau  suddenly  rent  asunder,  of  the  slow,  im- 
perfect manner  in  which  Nature  has  vainly  striven  to 
smooth  her  rough  work,  and  bury  the  ruins  with  thou- 
sands of  years'  accumulation  of  soil  and  debris* 

Already  late,  we  hurried  to  descend  the  trail,  and  were 
still  following  it  when  darkness  overtook  us ;  but  the  ani- 
mals were  so  well  acquainted  with  every  turn,  that  we 
found  no  difficulty  in  continuing  our  way  to  Longhurst's 
house,  and  here  we  camped  for  the  night. 

»  Dihris  (da-bre'),  fragments  detached  fix>m  the  siumuits  and  sides  of 
mountains. 


AROUND  YOSEMITE  WALLS.  365 

By  night  we  had  climbed  to  the  top  o'f  the  northern 
wall,  camping  at  the  head- waters  of  a  small  brook,  named 
by  emotional  Mr.  Hatchings,  I  believe,  the  Virgin's  Tears. 
A  charnung  camp-ground  was  formed  by  bands  of  rus- 
set meadow  wandering  in  vistas  through  a  stately  forest 
of  dark  green  fir-trees  unusually  feathered  to  the  base. 
Little  mahogany-colored  pools  surrounded  with  sphagnum* 
lay  in  the  meadows,  offering  pleasant  contrast  of  color. 
Our  camp-ground  was  among  clumps  of  thick  firs,  which 
completely  walled  in  the  fire,  and  made  close  overhang- 
ing shelters  for  table  and  beds. 

The  rock  under  us  was  one  sheer  sweep  of  thirty-two 
hundred  feet ;  upon  its  face  we  could  trace  the  lines  of 
fracture  and  all  prominent  lithological  changes.  Directly 
beneath,  outspread  like  a  delicately  tinted  chart,  lay  the 
lovely  park  of  Yosemite,  winding  in  and  out  about  the 
solid  white  feet  of  precipices  which  sunk  into  it  on  either 
side ;  its  sunlit  surface  invaded  by  the  shadow  of  the 
south  wall ;  its  spires  of  pine,  open  expanses  of  buff  and 
drab  meadow,  and  families  of  umber  oaks,  rising  as 
background  for  the  vivid  green  river-margin  and  flaming 
orange  masses  of  frosted  cottonwood  foliage. 

Deep  in  front,  the  Bridal- Veil  Brook  made  its  way 
through  the  bottom  of  an  open  gorge,  and  plunged  off  the 
edge  of  a  thousand-foot  cliff,  falling  in  white  water-dust 
and  drifting  in  pale  translucent  clouds  out  over  the  tree- 
tops  of  the  valley. 

Directly  opposite  us,  and  forming  the  other  gate-post 
of  the  valley's  entrance,  rose  the  great  mass  of  Cathedral 
Rocks,  —  a  group  quite  suggestive  of  the  Florence  Cuomo, 

But  our  grandest  view  was  eastward,  above  the  deep 
sheltered  valley  and  over  the  tops  of  those  terrible  granite 

•  Pronounced  RpBg'ni^ni.     A  kind  of  fragrant  moss. 


366 


nil-:  SIXTH  READER. 


walls,  out  upon  rolling  ridges  of  stone  and   wonderful 
granite  domes.     Nothing  in  the  whole  list  of  iiruptive       ^ 
products,  except  volcanoes  themselves,  is  so  wonderful  as 
those  domed  mountains.     They  are  of  every  variety  of 


AROUND   YUSEMlTh    IF  ALLS.  367 

conoidal  form,  having  horizontal  sections  accurately  eUip- 
tical,  ovoid,  or  circular,  and  profiles  varying  from  such 
semicircles  as  the  cap  behind  the  Sentinel  to  the  graceful 
infinite  curves  of  the  North  Dome.  Above  and  beyond 
tliese,  stretch  back  long  Uire  ridges  connecting  with  sunny 
summit  i)eaks. 

The  whole  region  is  one  solid  granite  mass,  with  here 
and  there  shallow  soil  layers,  and  a  thin  variable  forest, 
which  grows  in  picturesque  mode,  defining  the  leading 
lines  of  erosion,  as  an  artist  deepens  here  and  there  a  line 
to  hint  at  some  structural  peculiarity. 

A  complete  physical  exposure  of  the  range,  from  sum- 
mit to  base,  lay  before  us.  At  one  extreme  stand  sharp- 
ened peaks,  white  in  fretwork  of  glistening  ice-bank,  or 
black,  where  tower  straight  Ixilts  of  snowless  rock ;  at 
the  other,  stretch  away  plains  smiling  with  a  broad  hon- 
est brown  under  autumn  sunlight.  They  are  not  quite 
lovable  even  in  distant  tranquillity  of  hue,  and  just  es- 
cape being  interesting  in  spite  of  their  familiar  rivers  and 
associated  belts  of  oak.  Nothing  can  ever  render  them 
quite  charming,  for,  in  the  startling  splendor  of  flower- 
clad  April,  you  are  surfeited  with  an  embarrassment  of 
l)eauty,  at  all  other  times  stunned  by  their  poverty.  Not 
so  the  summits ;  forever  new,  full  of  individuality,  rich  in 
detail,  and  coloring  themselves  anew  under  every  cloud- 
change  or  hue  of  heaven,  they  lay  you  under  their  spell. 

From  them  the  eye  comes  back  over  granite  waves  and 
domes  to  the  sharp  precipice-edges  overhanging  Yosemite. 
We  look  down  those  vast,  hard,  gi-anite  fronts,  cracked 
and  splintered,  scarred  and  stained,  down  over  gorges 
crammed  with  debris  or  dark  with  files  of  climbing  pines. 
Lower,  the  precipice-feet  are  wrapped  in  meadow  and 
grove,  and  Ixjyond,  level  and  sunlit,  lies  the  floor,  —  that 


368  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

smooth  river-cut  i)ark,  with  exquisite  perfection  of  finish. 
An  excursion  which  Cotter  and  I  made  to  the  top  of 
the  Three  Brothers  proved  of  interest.  A  half-hour's 
walk  from  camp,  over  rolling  granite  country,  brought  us 
to  a  ridge  which  jutted  boldly  out  from  the  plateau  to 
the  edge  of  the  Yosemite  wall.  Here  again  we  were  on 
the  verge  of  a  precipice,  this  time  four  thousand  two  hun- 
dred feet  high.  Beneath  us  the  whole  upper  half  of  the 
valley  was  as  clearly  seen  as  the  southern  half  had  been 
from  Capitan.  The  sinuosities  of  the  Merced,  those  nar- 
row silvery  gleams  which  indicate  the  channel  of  the 
Yosemite  Creek,  the  broad  expanse  of  meadow,  and  debris 
trains  which  had  bounded  down  the  Sentinel  slope,  were 
all  laid  out  under  us,  though  diminished  by  immense 
depth. 

The  loftiest  and  most  magnificent  parts  of  the  walls 
crowded  in  a  semicircle  in  front  of  us ;  above  them  the 
domes,  lifted  even  higher  than  ourselves,  swept  down  to 
the  precipice-edges.  Directly  to  our  left,  we  overlooked 
the  goblet-like  recess  into  which  the  Yosemite  tumbles, 
and  could  see  the  white  torrent  leap  through  its  granite 
lip,  disappearing  a  thousand  feet  below,  hidden  from  our 
view  by  projecting  crags ;  its  roar  floating  up  to  us,  now 
resounding  loudly,  and  again  dying  off  in  faint  reverbera- 
tions, like  the  sounding  of  the  sea. 

I  found  it  extremest  pleasure  to  lie  there  alone  on  the 
dizzy  brink,  studying  the  fine  sculpture  of  cliff  and  crag, 
and  watching  that  slow  grand  gro^vth  of  afternoon  shadows. 
Sunset  found  me  there,  still  disinclined  to  stir,  and  re- 
paid me  by  a  glorious  spectacle  of  color.  At  this  hour 
there  is  no  more  splendid  contrast  of  light  and  shade  than 
one  sees  upon  the  western  gateway  itself,  —  dark-shad- 
owed Capitan  upon  one  side,  profiled  against  the  sunset 


THE  CONQUERORS  GRAVE.  369 

sky,  and  the  yellow  mass  of  Cathedral  Rocks  rising  oppo- 
site in  full  light,  while  the  valley  is  divided  equally  be- 
tween sunshine  and  shade.  Pine  groves  and  oaks  almost 
black  in  the  shadow  are  brightened  up  to  clear  red- 
browns  where  they  pass  out  upon  the  lighted  plain.  The 
Merced,  upon  its  mirror-like  expanse,  here  reflects  deep 
blue  from  Capitan,  and  there  the  warm  Cathedral  gold. 


LXXXVI.— THE  CONQUEROR'S   GRAVE. 

BRYANT. 

This  poem,  which  appeared  originally  in  "  Putnam's  Magazine,"  i»  one  of  the  most 
lieantiful  compositions  that  ever  was  written  ;  admirable  in  sentiment,  admirable  in 
expression.  From  such  poetry  we  leani  how  much  we  owe  to  those  poets  whose 
genius  is  under  the  control  of  moral  feeling ;  who  make  the  imagination  and  the 
sense  of  beauty  ministering  servants  at  the  altar  of  the  highest  good  and  the  highest 
truth. 

WITHIN  this  lowly  grave  a  conqueror  lies ; 
And  yet  the  monument  proclaims  it  not, 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath  chisel  wrought 
The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never  dies,  — 
Ivy  and  amaranth  in  a  graceful  sheaf 
Twined  with  the  laurel's  fair,'  imperial  leaf. 
A  simple  name  alone, 
To  the  great  world  unknown, 
Is  graven  here,  and  >vild-flowers  rising  round, 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of  the  ground. 
Lean  lovingly  a^jainst  the  humble  stone. 

lien*,  ill  tin*  (Hiict  eartli,  thoy  laid  apart 
Xo  man  of  iron  mould  and  bloody  hands, 
WHio  sought  to  AVHjak  upon  the  cowering  lands 

The  passions  timt  roiisiinio<1  1"*^  focfl<^c^  lionrt  ; 


370  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate  frame. 
Gentlest  in  mien  and  mind 
Of  gentle  womankind, 
Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath  of  blame  ; 
One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kindness  made 

Its  hamit,  like  flowers  by  sunny  brooks  in  May  ; 
Yet  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain,  a  shade 
Of  sweeter  sadness  chased  the  smile  away. 

Nor  deem  that  when  the  hand  that  moulders  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were  chilled  with  fear, 

And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign,  as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy  east,  — 

Gray  captains  leading  bands  of  veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vultures'  feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars  that  gave 
The  victory  to  her  who  fills  this  grave ; 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought ; 
Alone  the  battle  fought ; 
Through  that  long  strife  her  constant  hope  was  staid 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other  aid. 

She  met  the  hosts  of  sorrow  with  a  look 

That  altered  not  beneath  the  frown  they  wore ; 

And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were  tamed,  and  took 
Meekly  her  gentle  rule,  and  frowned  no  more. 

Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults  of  wrath, 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain, 

And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from  her  path. 
By  that  victorious  hand  despair  was  slain : 

With  love  she  vanquished  hate,  and  overcame 

Evil  with  good  in  her  great  Master's  name. 

Her  glory  is  not  of  this  shadowy  state^ 
Glory  that  "vvith  the  fleeting  season  dies ; 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEKS.  371 

But  when  sho  qptered  at  the  sapphire  gate, 
Wliat  joy  was  nicliant  in  celestial  eyes  ! 
How  heaven's  bright  deptlis  with  sounding  welcomes  rung, 
And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining  hands  were  flung  ! 

And  He  who,  long  before, 

Pain,  sconi,  and  sorrow  bore, 
The  mighty  Sufferer,  \y\th  aspect  sweet, 
Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from  his  seat,  -  — 
He  who,  returning  glorious  from  the  grave. 
Dragged  death,  disarmed,  in  chains,  a  crouching  slave. 

See,  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows  low ; 

Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the  night  is  near. 
O  gentle  sleeper,  from  thy  grave  I  go 

Consoled,  though  sad,  in  hope,  and  yet  in  fear  I 
Brief  is  the  time,  I  know. 
The  warfare  scarce  begun  ; 
Yet  till  may  win  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won  ; 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose  waters  strengthened  thee ; 

The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few  to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll ;  the  glorious  armory 

That  ministered  to  thee  is  open  still. 


LXXXVII.  —  SONG   OF  THE   GREEKS. 

CAMPBELU 

TnsBK  stirring  lines  were  written  while  the  struggle  between  the  Greeks  nnd  Turks 
was  going  on,  whioh  ended  in  the  pstAblishment  of  Greece  as  an  independent  king- 
dom. 

A(.Al>i    Uj  Uu;  balilo,  At.li.tians  ! 
Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 
(hir  land,  —  the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree, — 
It  luitli  Imm'h.  :in.l  shall  VL't  be.  ihv.  land  of  the  free  : 


372  THE   SI. \ -I  II   READER. 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

And  we  march  that  the  footprints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 

May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Ah  !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretched  in  our  aid  ?  —  Be  the  combat  our  own ! 

And  we  '11  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone ! 

For  we  've  sworn  by  our  country's  assaulters. 

By  the  virgins  they  've  dragged  from  our  altars, 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains. 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 

That,  living,  we  shall  be  victorious, 

Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not : 

The  sword  that  we  've  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not : 

Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid. 

And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide,  waves  ingulf,  fire  consume  us ; 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us. 

If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves  : 

But  we  've  smote  them  already  with  lire  on  the  waves, 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us : 

To  the  charge  !  —  Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

This  day,  —  shall  ye  blush  for  its  story. 

Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory  ?  — 

Our  women,  —  0,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest,  with  wreaths  in  their  hair  ? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 

K  a  coward  there  be  who  would  slacken 


PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  INFANT  SON.        373 

Till  we  've  trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  ourselves  worth 
Being  sprung  from,  and  named  for,  the  godlike  of  earth. 
Strike  home  !  —  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 
As  heroes  descended  fix>m  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion ! 

Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  ocean, 

Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns  shall  with  jubilee  ring. 

And  the  Nine  *  shall  new  hallow  their  Helicon's  t  spring. 

Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness. 

That  were  cold,  and  extinguished  in  sadness ; 

Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white  waving  arms. 

Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms,  — 

When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 

Shall  have  crimsoned  the  beaks  of  our  ravens ! 


LXXXVm.  —PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  INFANT  SON. 

HOOD. 

Thomas  Hood  was  born  in  London  in  1798,  and  died  in  1845.  He  was  destined  for 
commercial  punuits,  and  at  an  early  age  was  placed  in  a  connting-honse  in  his  native 
city.  Being  of  a  delicate  constitution,  his  health  began  to  fail ;  and  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen he  was  sent  to  Dundee,  in  Scotland,  to  reside  with  some  relatives.  But  his  tastes 
were  strongly  literary ;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  he  embraced  the  profession  of 
letters,  and  began  to  earn  his  bread  by  his  pen.  His  life  was  one  of  severe  toil,  and, 
Irom  his  delicate  health  and  sensitive  temperament,  of  much  suflTering,  alwaj's  sus- 
tained, however,  with  manly  resolution  and  a  cheerful  spirit.  He  wrote  much,  both  in 
proee  and  verse.  His  worl(s  consist,  for  the  most  part,  of  collected  contributions  to 
magaiines  and  periodicals.  His  novel  of  "Tylney  Hall"  was  not  very  succe-ssflil. 
His  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  of  which  three  volumes  were  published,  and  his  •'  Hood's 
Own,"  are  the  most  popular  of  his  writings.  "  Up  the  Rhine  "  is  the  narrative  of  an 
imaginary  tour  in  Germany  by  a  family  party.  "  Whimsicalities  "  is  a  collection  of  his 
contributions  to  the  "  New  Monthly  Magazine,"  of  which  he  was  at  one  time  the  editor. 
At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  conducting  a  periodical  called  "  Hood's  Magazine."  in 
which  some  of  his  best  pieces  appear. 

Hood  was  a  man  of  peculiar  and  original  genios,  which  manlfteted  itself  with  eqna) 

*  The  Muses,  nine  goddesses  who  presided  over  the  liberal  arts. 
t  A  mountain  in  Greece,  sacred  to  Aik)I1o  and  the  Mnse.<t. 


374  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

power  and  ease  in  humor  and  imthos.  He  was  a  very  accurate  ob8er^•er  of  life  and 
manners.  His  wit  is  revealed  by  a  boundless  profusion  of  the  quaintest,  oddest,  and 
most  unexpected  combinationti ;  and  his  humor  is  marked  alike  by  richness  and  deli- 
cacy. As  a  punster,  lie  stands  without  a  rival  No  one  elae  has  given  so  much  ex- 
pression and  character  to  this  inferior  form  of  wit.  His  serious  productions  are  mostly 
in  the  form  of  verse,  and  are  remarkable  for  sweetness  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  ex- 
quisite fancy,  and  finely  chosen  language.  A  few  of  them,  such  as  "  The  Drcaiu  of  Eu* 
gene  Aram,"  "  The  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  have  great  power  and 
pathos.  In  many  of  his  poems  the  sportive  and  serious  elements  are  most  happily 
llended.     "  A  Retrospective  Review  "  is  a  case  in  point. 

THOU  happy,  happy  elf ! 
(But  stop  —  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear)  — 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(My  love,  he 's  poking  peas  into  his  ear)  — 
Thou  merry,  laugliing  sprite ! 
With  spirits  feather  light, 
Untouched  by  son*ow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  — 
(Good  heavens  !  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  !)  — 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  an^c  toys  so  fumiily  bestuck. 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 
(The  door !  the  door !  he  '11  tumble  down  the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pin^ore  afire !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  id^l  of  thy  parents  —  (stop  the  boy  I 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub  —  but  of  earth ! 
Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(The  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  his  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  hojjey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows. 
Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny. 


PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  INFAXT  SON.         375 

(Another  tumble  —  that 's  his  precious  no8e !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  liope  ! 
(He  '11  break  the  mirror  with  that  skippilig-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint, 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  V) 

Thou  young  don\estic  love  ! 
(He  '11  have  that  jug  otf  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ^) 
Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He  '11  climb  upon  the  table  —  that 's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  da^^^ling  life, 

(He  *8  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 
Toss  the  light  ball  —  bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He 's  got  the  sci^rs,  snipping  at  your  gown !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 
Bold  as  tlie  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove  — 

(I  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write,  unless  ho 's  sent  above !) 


376  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

LXXXIX.  —  LAFAYETTE'S   VISIT   TO   AMERICA 
IN  1825. 

JOSIAH  QUINCT. 

JosiAH  QuwcT,  Jr.,  was  bom  In  Boston  fJanuary  17, 1802 ;  and  was  graduated  at  Har- 
vard University  in  1821.  He  has  been  Preiiident  of  the  Massachusetts  Senate,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Common  Council  of  Boston,  and  Mayor  of  the  city.  He  has  written  much 
in  favor  of  social  and  commercial  reforms. 

The  following  is  an  extract  fh>m  an  Address  delivered  in  Boston,  June  17, 1874,  at 
an  entertainment  in  aid  of  the  Washington  Medallion  Fund. 

FORTY-NINE  years  ago  I  had  the  privilege,  in  my 
capacity  as  aid  to  Governor  Lincoln,  to  stand  next 
to  General  Lafayette  wlien  he  laid  the  corner-stone  of 
the  Monument  on  Bunker  Hill.  It  is  impossible  for  per- 
sons of  this  generation  to  realize  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  his  return  was  greeted ;  all  knew  that  when  he 
applied,  in  1776,  to  our  commissioners  in  Paris,  for  a  pas- 
sage in  the  first  ship  they  should  despatch  to  America, 
they  were  obliged  to  answer  him  that  they  possessed  not 
the  means  or  the  credit  sufficient  for  providing  a  single 
vessel  in  all  the  ports  of  Franca  "  Then,"  exclaimed  the 
youthful  hero,  "I  will  provide  my  own."  And  it  is  a 
literal  fact,  that  when  all  America  was  too  poor  to  offer 
him  so  much  as  a  passage  to  her  shores,  he  left,  in  his 
tender  youth,  the  bosom  of  a  home  where  domestic  hap- 
piness, wealth,  and  honor  awaited  him,  to  plunge  in  the 
blood  and  dust  of  our  inauspicious  struggle. 

And  his  reappearance,  after  an  absence  of  forty  years, 
was  almost  as  if  his  friend  George  Washington  had  re- 
turned on  the  scene.  On  the  15th  of  June,  after  having, 
in  four  months,  travelled  over  five  thousand  miles,  and 
visited  the  country  from  Maine  to  Florida,  and  received 
the  homage  of  our  sixteen  Republics,  —  a  fact,  before  the 
invention  of  railways,  almost  without  a  parallel,  —  La- 


LAFAYETTE'S   VISIT  TO  AMERICA   IN  1825.      377 

fayette  reached  Boston  to  witness  the  celebration  of  the 
fiftietli  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

The  day  dawned  with  uncommon  splendor.  The  State 
of  Massachusetts  had  made  an  appropriation  to  pay  the 
expenses  of  every  soldier  of  the  Kevolution  who  reported 
himself  on  that  day ;  and  almost  every  survivor  of  that 
venerable  band,  who  resided  in  New  England,  had  availed 
himself  of  her  bounty.  From  my  ofticial  relations,  T  wit- 
nessed the  meeting  of  these  veterans.  They  had  parted 
nearly  half  a  century  before.  Their  subsequent  lot  in  life, 
or  even  their  continued  existence,  had  been  to  each  other 
unknown.  They  met  and  recognized  one  another  witli 
almost  the  feelings  of  boys.  The  recollections  of  the  past 
pressed  upon  their  memories  ;  and  the  flame  of  life  that 
had  become  almost  dormant  in  their  bosoms  flashed  out 
with  its  early  briglitness  before  it  expired. 

Forty  years  before,  their  patriot  souls  had  scorned  tlie 
advice  not  to  disband  until  the  nation  had  paid  for  their 
services,  and  they  left  the  army  poor,  and,  from  their  mil- 
itary experiences,  unfitted  to  prosper  in  the  usual  avoca- 
tions of  life.  The  visit  of  T^fayette,  and  the  recognition 
tlirough  him  and  with  him  of  their  services,  was  to  them 
like  the  breaking  out  of  the  setting  sun  after  a  day  of 
storms,  revealing  the  beauty  of  the  land  for  whicli  they  had 
suffered,  and  giving  them  the  hope  of  a  brighter  to-morrow. 

The  Masonic  and  military  show  of  the  procession  had 
never  been  surpassed,  but  the  great  interest  of  the  scene 
arose  from  the  presence  of  the  survivors  of  the  army  of 
the  Revolution.  Of  these,  two  hundred  officers  and  sol- 
diers led  tlie  way,  and  forty,  who  had  fought  at  Bunker 
Hill,  followed  in  carriages.  Lafayette  was  the  only  staff 
officer  of  that  venerable  band ;  and  seven  captains,  three 
lieutenants,  and  one  ensign  constituted  all  the  other  offi- 
cers that  remained. 


378  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

The  first  exercise  of  the  day  had  a  peculiar  interest. 
The  occasion  was  of  course  to  be  consecrated  by  prayer 
and  the  venerable  Joseph  Thaxter,  chaplain  of  Prescott's 
own  regiment,  rose  to  officiate.  Fifty  years  before  he  had 
stood  upon  that  spot,  and  in  the  presence  of  many  for 
whom  that  morning  sun  should  know  no  setting,  called 
upon  Him,  wlio  can  save  by  many  or  by  few,  for  his  aid 
in  the  approaching  struggle.  His  presence  brought  the 
scene  vividly -to  our  view. 

In  imagination,  we  could  almost  hear  the  thunder  of 
the  broadsides  that  ushered  in  that  eventful  morning. 
We  could  almost  see  l^escott  and  Warren  and  their  gal- 
lant host  pausing  from  their  labors  to  listen  to  an  invoca- 
tion to  Him  before  whom  many  before  nightfall  were  to 
appear.  We  could  almost  realize  what  thoughts  must 
have  filled  the  minds  of  patriots  before  that  first  deci- 
sive conflict.  Since  then,  everj'thing  liad  changed,  except 
the  Being  l^efore  whom  we  bowed.  He  alone  is  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever. 

The  prayer  was  followed  by  a  hymn,  written  by  Mr. 
Pierpont,  wliich,  sung  by  the  vast  multitude  to  the  tune 
of  Old  Hundred,  produced  a  tlirilliiii^'  effect:  — 

"0,  is  not  this  a  holy  spot  : 

'Tis  the  high  place  of  freedom's  birth :  — 
God  of  our  fathers  I  is  it  not 
The  holiest  spot  on  all  the  earth  ? 

'*  Quenched  is  thy  flame  on  Horeb's  side, 
The  robbers  roam  o'er  Sinai  now, 
And  those  old  men,  thy  seers,  abide 
No  more  on  Ziou's  mournful  T)row. 

"  But  on  this  sjwt,  thou,  Lord,  hast  dwelt 
Since  round  its  head  the  war-cloud  curled, 
And  wrapped  our  fathers,  where  they  knelt 
In  prayer  and  battle  for  a  world. 


PERSONAL  INFLUENCE.  379 

Here  sleeps  their  dust :  "t  is  holy  ground, 

And  we,  the  children  of  the  brave, 
From  the  four  winds  have  gathered  round 

To  lay  our  offering  on  their  grave. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  round  us  blow, 

Free  as  yon  waves  before  us  spread, 
We  rear  a  pile,  that  long  shall  throw 

Its  shadow  on  their  sacred  bed. 

'  But  on  their  deeds  no  shade  shall  fall 

While  o'er  their  couch  thy  sun  shall  flame. 
Thine  ear  was  bowed  to  hear  their  call, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  guard  their  fame.". 


XC.  —  PEESONAL  INFLUENCE 

WILLIAM  R.  WILLIAMS,   D.  D. 

William  R  Williams,  D.  D.,  an  American  clergymui.  was  born  in  the  city  of  New 
York.  October  14, 1804.  He  was  graduated  at  Columbia  College  in  18*22.  He  studied 
law  and  was  admitted  to  practice,  but  soon  after  embraced  the  clerical  profession, 
and  was  settled  In  1831  over  the  Baptist  congregation  in  Amity  Street,  New  York. 
where  he  has  since  resided.  He  has  published  "  I.«rturps  on  the  Ix)rd'8  Prayer," 
"Religioos  Progress,"  and  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  addresses. 

He  has  a  high  reputation  as  an  earnest  and  eloquent  preacher  of  the  gospel. 

THE  world  is  filled  with  the  countless  and  interlacing 
filaments  of  influence,  which  spread  from  individual 
to  individual,  over  the  whole  face  and  framework  of  soci- 
ety. The  infant,  wailing  and  helpless  in  tlie  arms  of  his 
mother,  already  wields  an  influence  felt  through  the 
whole  household,  his  fretfulness  disturbing  or  his  serene 
smiles  gladdening  that  entire  home.  And  as,  with  added 
years,  his  faculties  are  expanded,  and  the  sphere  of  his 
acti\ity  widens  itself,  his  influence  increases.  Every 
man  whom  he  meets,  much  more  whom  he  moulds  and 
governs,  becomes  the  more  happy  or  the  more  wTetched, 
the  better  or  the  worse,  according  to  the  character  of  his 
spirit  and  example. 


380  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Nor  can  he  strip  from  himself  this  influence.  If  he 
flee  away  from  the  society  of  his  fellows  to  dwell  alone 
in  the  wilderness,  he  leaves  behind  him  the  example  of 
neglected  duty,  and  the  memory  of  disregarded  love,  to 
afflict  the  family  he  has  abandoned.  Even  in  the  path- 
less desert,  he  finds  his  own  feet  caught  in  the  torn  and 
entangled  web  of  influence  that  bound  him  to  society; 
and  its  cords  remain  wherever  he  was  once  known,  send- 
ing home  to  the  hearts  that  twined  around  him  sorrow 
and  pain.  Nor  can  the  possessor  of  it  expect  it  to  go 
down  into  the  grave  with  him.  The  sepulchre  may  have 
closed  in  silence  over  him,  and  his  name  may  have  per- 
ished from  among  men ;  yet  his  influence,  nameless  as  it 
is,  and  untraceable  by  human  eye,  is  floating  over  the 
face  of  society. 

No  man  leaves  the  world  in  all  things  such  as  he  found 
it  The  habits  which  he  was  instrumental  in  forming 
may  go  on  from  century  to  century,  an  heirloom  for  good 
or  for  evil,  doing  their  work  of  misery  or  of  liappiness, 
blasting  or  blessing  the  country  that  has  now  lost  all 
record  of  his  megiory.  In  the  case  of  some,  this  influ- 
ence is  most  sensible. 

Every  age  l>eholds  and  owns  their  power.  And  thus 
it  is,  that,  although  centuries  have  roUed  their  inter- 
vening tide  between  the  age  of  their  birth  and  our 
own,  and  the  empires  under  which  they  flourished  have 
long  since  mouldered  away  from  the  soil  whence  they 
sprung,  and  the  material  frame  of  the  author  himself 
lias  been  trampled  down  into  undistinguishable  dust,  the 
writers  of  classical  antiquity  are  still  living  and  laboring 
among  us.  The  glorious  dreams  of  Plato  still  float  be- 
fore the  eye  of  tlie  metaphysician,  and  the  genius  of 
Homer  tinges  with  its  own  light  the  whole  firmament  of 
modern  invention. 


PERSONAL  INFLUENCE.  381 

Nor,  unhappily,  is  this  all.  Corruption  is  yet  oozing 
out,  in  lessons  of  profligacy  and  atheism,  from  the  pages 
of  an  Ovid  and  a  Lucretius,  and,  as  if  from  their  gi-aves, 
streams  forth  the  undecaying  rankness  of  vice  and  false- 
hood, although  the  dominion  of  the  world  has  long  since 
passed  from  the  halls  of  their  Caesars,  and  the  very  lan- 
guage they  employed  has  died  away  from  the  lips  of 
man. 

The  Church  yet  feels,  throughout  all  lands,  the  influ- 
ence of  the  thoughts  that  passed,  in  the  solitude  of  mid- 
night, through  the  bosom  of  Paul,  as  he  sat  in  the  shad- 
ows of  his  prison,  a  lone,  unbefriended  man,  —  thoughts 
which,  lifting  his  manacled  hand,  he  spread  in  his  epistles 
before  the  eyes  of  men,  there  to  remain  forever.  It  feels 
yet  the  effect  of  the  pious  meditations  of  David,  when 
roaming  on  the  hillside  a  humble  shepherd  lad,  of  the 
family  piety  of  Abraliam,  and  of  the  religious  nurture  that 
trained  up  the  infancy  of  Moses.  Every  nation  is  affected 
at  this  moment  by  the  moral  power  that  emanated  from 
the  despised  Noah,  as  that  preacher  of  righteousness  sat 
among  his  family,  perhaps  dejected  and  faint  from  un- 
successful toil,  teaching  them  to  call  upon  God  when  all 
the  families  of  the  earth  beside  had  forgotten  him. 

And  if  the  mind,  taking  its  flight  from  the  narrow  pre- 
cincts of  these  walls,  were  to  wander  abroad  along  the 
peopled  highways  and  to  the  farthest  hamlets  of  our  own 
land,  and,  passing  the  seas  to  traverse  distant  realms  and 
barbarous  coasts,  every  man  whom  its  travels  met,  nay, 
every  being  of  human  mould  that  has  ever  trodden  this 
earth  in  earlier  ages,  or  is  now  to  be  found  among  its 
moving  myriads,  has  felt  or  is  feeling  the  influence  of  the 
thoughts  of  a  solitary  woman,  who,  centuries  ago,  stood 
debating  the  claims  of  conscience  and  of  .sin,  nmiil  the 
verdant  glories  of  the  yet  unforfeited  Paradisi 


382  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

.   XCI.  — SPEECH   ON  THE  AMEKICAN   WAR 

CHATHAM. 

William  Pitt,  E«rl  of  Chatham,  was  bom  in  Boconnoc,  in  the  county  of  Cornwall, 
England,  November  15,  1708  ;  and  died  at  Hayes,  in  Kent,  May  11, 1778.  He  entered 
the  Hoose  of  Comniuns  in  1735,  became  Secretary  of  State,  and  substantially  Prime 
Minister,  in  December,  175<1;  and  continaed  to  hold  this  office,  with  a  brief  interval, 
till  October,  1761.  In  176G  he  received  the  office  of  Lord  Privy  Seal,  and  was  elevated 
to  tlie  peerage  with  the  title  of  Earl  of  Chatham.  He  resigned  the  Privy  Seal  in  1768, 
and  subsequently  took  a  leading  part  in  many  popular  questions. 

Chatham's  name  is  one  of  the  most  iUustrioos  In  Eng^h  history.  Dr.  Franklin 
said  that  in  the  course  of  his  life  he  bad  sometimes  leen  eloquence  without  wisdom, 
and  often  wisdom  without  eloquence ;  in  Lord  Chatham  alone  had  he  seen  both 
united.  His  eloquence,  vivid,  impetuous,  and  daring,  was  aided  by  uncommon  per- 
sonal advantages,  —  a  commanding  presence,  an  eye  of  fire,  and  a  voice  of  equal  sweet- 
ness and  power.  His  character  was  lofty,  his  private  life  was  spotless,  and  his 
motives  high.  His  temper  was  somewhat  wayward,  and  he  was  impatient  of  oppo- 
sition or  contradiction.  &is  memory  is  cherished  with  peculiar  reverence  in  our 
country,  because  of  his  earnest  and  consistent  support  of  the  rigbts  of  the  Colonies 
against  the  measures  of  Lord  North's  administration. 

The  following  speech  was  delivered  in  the  House  of  Lords,  November  18,  1777. 
The  king  had  opened  the  session  of  Parliament  with  a  speech  from  the  throne,  recom- 
mending a  ftirther  and  more  enezgetiu  prosecution  of  the  war  to  reduce  the  American 
Colonies  to  submission.  To  the  address  in  reply  to  this  speech,  and  simply  echoing 
its  sentiments,  Chatham  offered  an  amendment,  proposing  an  immediate  cessation  of 
hostilities,  and  adequate  measures  of  conciliation.  The  birth  of  the  Princess  Sophia, 
one  of  the  daughters  of  George  III.,  had  recently  taken  place,  and  was  alluded  to  in 
the  address. 

I  RISE,  my  lords,  to  declare  my  sentiments  on  this 
most  solemn  and  serious  subject.  It  has  imposed  a 
load  upon  my  mind,  which,  I  fear,  nothing  can  remove, 
but  which  impels  me  to  endeavor  its  alleviation,  by  a 
free  and  unreserved  communication  of  my  sentiments. 

In  tlie  first  part  of  the  address  I  have  the  honor  of 
heartily  concurrihg  with  the  noble  earl  who  moved  it 
No  man  feels  sincerer  joy  than  I  do ;  none  can  offer  more 
genuine  congratulations  on  every  accession  of  strength 
to  the  Protestant  succession.  I  therefore  join  in  every 
congratulation  on  the  birth  of  another  princess,  and  the 
happy  recovery  of  her  Majesty. 

But  I  must  stop  here.     My  courtly  complaisance  will 


SPEECH      A     ////     AMEKICAN   WAR.  383 

carry  me  no  further.  I  will  not  join  in  congratulation 
on  misfortune  and  disgrace.  I  cannot  concur  in  a  blind 
and  servile  address,  which  a})proves  and  endeavors  to 
sanctify  the  monstrous  measures  wliich  have  heaped  dis- 
grace and  misfortune  upon  us.  This,  ray  lords,  is  a 
perilous  and  tremendous  moment !  It  is  not  a  time  for 
adulation.     The  smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  now  avail, 

—  cannot  save  us  in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is 
now  necessary  to  instruct  the  Throne  in  the  language 
of  truth.  We  must  dispel  the  illusion  and  the  darkness 
which  envelop  it,  and  display  in  its  full  danger  and  true 
colors  the  ruin  that  is  brought  to  our  doors. 

This,  my  lords,  is  our  duty.  It  is  the  proper  function 
of  this  noble  assembly,  sitting,  as  we  do,  upon  our  honors 
in  this  house,  the  hereditary  council  of  the  Crown.  Who 
is  the  minister,  where  is  the  minister,  that  has  dared 
to  suggest  to  the  Throne  the  contrary,  unconstitutional 
language  this  day  delivered  from  it?  The  accustomed 
language  from  the  Throne  has  been  application  to  Parlia- 
ment for  advice,  and  a  reliance  on  its  constitutional  ad- 
vice and  assistance.  As  it  is  the  right  of  Parliament  to 
give,  so  it  is  the  duty  of  the  Crown  to  ask  it.  But  on 
this  day,  and  in  this  extreme  momentous  exigency,  no 
reliance  is  reposed  on  our  constitutional  counsels !  no 
advice  is  asked  from  the  sober  and  enlightened  care  of 
Parliament !  But  the  Crown,  from  itself  and  by  itself, 
declares  an  unalterable  determination  to  pursue  measures, 

—  and  what  measures,  my  lords  ?  The  measures  that 
have  produced  the  imminent  perils  that  threaten  us; 
the  measures  that  have  brought  ruin  to  our  doors. 

Can  the  minister  of  the  day  now  presume  to  expect  a 
continuance  of  support  in  this  ruinous  infatuation  ?  Can 
pMrl.-ii.H.nf  1h»  <,,  dead  U)  its  <lii:iiity  an«l  its  duty  as  to 


384  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

be  thus  deluded  into  the  loss  of  the  one  and  the  violation 
of  the  other  ?  To  give  an  unlimited  credit  and  support 
for  the  steady  perseverance  in  measures  not  proposed 
for  our  Parliamentary  advice,  but  dictated  and  forced 
upon  us,  —  in  measures,  I  say,  my  lords,  which  have 
reduced  this  late  flourishing  Empire  to  ruin  and  con- 
tempt ?  "  But  yesterday,  and  England  might  have  stood 
against  the  world;  now  none  so  poor  to  do  her  rever- 
ence." I  use  the  words  of  a  poet;  but,  though  it  be 
poetry,  it  is  no  fiction.  It  is  a  shameful  truth  that  not 
only  the  power  and  strength  of  this  country  are  wasting 
away  and  expiring,  but  her  well-earned  glories,  her  true 
honor,  and  Substantial  dignity  are  sacrificed. 

France,  my  lords,  has  insulted  you;  she  has  encour- 
aged and  sustained  America;  and,  whether  America  be 
wrong  or  right,  the  dignity  of  this  country  oughtNto  spurn 
at  the  officious  insult  of  French  interference.  The  min- 
isters and  ambassadors  of  those  who  are  called  rebels  and 
enemies  are  in  Paris;  in  Paris  they  transact  the  recip- 
rocal interests  of  America  and  France.  Can  there  be  a 
more  mortifying  insult  ?  Can  even  our  ministers  sustain 
a  more  humiliating  disgrace  ?  Do  they  dare  to  resent 
it  ?  Do  they  presume  even  to  hint  a  vindication  of  their 
honor,  and  the  dignity  of  the  state,  by  requiring  the  dis- 
mission of  the  plenipotentiaries  of  America  ?  Such  is 
the  degradation  to  which  they  have  reduced  the  glories  of 
England ! 

The  people  whom  they  aflfect  to  call  contemptible 
rebels,  but  whose  growing  power  has  at  last  obtained 
the  name  of  enemies ;  the  people  with  whom  they  have 
engaged  this  country  in  war,  and  against  whom  they  now 
command  our  implicit  support  in  every  measure  of  des- 
perate hostility,  —  this  people,  despised  as  rebels,  or  ac- 


SPEECH  U\   THE  AMERICA  y   WAR.  385 

knowledged  as  enemies,  are  abetted  against  you,  supplied 
with  every  military  store,  their  interests  consulted,  and 
tlieir  ambassadoi-s  entertained,  by  your  inveterate  enemy, 
and  our  ministers  dare  not  interpose  with  dignity  or 
effect !  Is  this  the  honor  of  a  great  kingdom  ?  Is  this 
the  indignant  spirit  of  England,  who  "but  yesterday" 
gave  law  to  the  house  of  Bourbon  ?  My  lords,  the  dig- 
nity of  nations  demands  a  decisive  conduct  in  a  situation 
like  this. 

My  lords,  this  ruinous  and  ignominious  situation, 
where  we  cannot  act  with  success,  nor  suffer  with  honor, 
calls  upon  us  to  remonstrate  in  the  strongest  and  loudest 
language  of  truth,  to  rescue  the  ear  of  majesty  from  the 
delusions  which  surround  it.  The  despemte  state  of  our 
arms  abroad  is  in  part  known.  I  love  and  honor  the 
English  troops.  No  man  thinks  more  highly  of  them 
than  I  do.  I  know  their  virtues  and  their  valor.  I 
know  they  can  achieve  anything  except  impossibilities ; 
and  I  know  that  the  conquest  of  English  America  is  an 
impossibility. 

You  cannot,  I  venture  to  say,  you  cannot  conquer 
America.  Your  armies  in  the  last  war  effected  every- 
thing that  could  be  effected ;  and  what  was  it  ?  It  cost 
a  numerous  array,  under  the  command  of  a  most  able 
general  (Lord  Amherst),  now  a  noble  lord  in  this  house, 
a  long  and  laborious  campaign  to  expel  five  thousand 
Frenchmen  from  French  America.  My  lords,  you  cannot 
conquer  America.  Wliat  is  your  present  situation  there  ? 
We  do  not  know  the  worst ;  but  we  know  that  in  three 
campaigns  we  have  done  nothing  and  suffered  much. 
Besides  the  sufferings,  perhaps  total  loss,  of  the  Northern 
force,  the  best  appointed  army  that  ever  took  the  field, 
commanded  by  Sir  William  Howe,  has  retired  from  the 


38G  Till.  SIXTH  i:i:M)i:n. 

American  lines.  Il<-  \v;i>  (.MiL:o(^  to  rclinrpii.^li  \\\^  at- 
tempt, and  witli  Liivat  delay  and  daii-cr  id  adopt  a  iicw 
and  distinct  plan  ^r  cix-iat iuii>.  W'c  .->li;ill  soon  know, 
and  in  any  event  iiave  reason  to  lament,  what  may  liaM- 
happened  since.  As  to  conquest,  thL^refore,  my  lords,  1 
repeat,  it  is  impossildr. 

You  may  swell  every  expense  and  every  effort  >\\\\ 
more  extravagantly,  pile  ami  accumulate  every  !i>-i>t- 
ance  you  can  buy  or  Ik. now,  traffic  and  l.artcr  whIi 
every  little  jiitilul  German  prince  that  sells  and  -. mN  \\\< 
subjects  to  the  slianiblos  of  a  foreign  despot,  your  eHorts 
are  forever  vain  and  impotent,  —  doubly  so  from  this 
mercenary  ai<l  on  which  you  ivh  ;  tor  it  irritates,  to  an 
incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  enemies,  to  over- 
run them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and  }>lunder, 
devoting  them  and  their  possessions  to  tlic  lajiaeiiy  of 
liindinL:  cniehy  !  If  I  weii-  an  American,  as  I  am  an 
Knglisiunan,  whih'  a  lorei-n  iioop  was  landed  in  mv 
country,  I  nevi-r  would  lay  down  my  arms,  —  never, — 
never,  —  never. 


A' 


XCIL  — ALPiXK  s(i:xi:i:v. 

BVIioN. 

BOVK  me  are  tlie  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  va>t  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  x  aljis. 
And  throned  Ktornity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  suhliniity.  where  forms  an<l  talis 
The  avidauchc.   —  the  tliunderlhilt  nt'  -ik^w  ! 

All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gather  around  these  sumniits,  as  to  show 
ll<jw  earth  may  pieive  t-  Ih  aveii,  yet  leave  Aaiii  man  below^. 


ALPINE  SCENERY.  387 

Clear,  pliicid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lakt* 

With  the  wide  world  I 've  dwelt  in  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  :  once  I  love<l 

Torn  ocean's  roar ;  but  thy  soft  munuuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved 
That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night ;  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
MeUowod  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 

i^ve  darkeaied  Jura,  whose  capped  heights  appear 

Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 

His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  binl  from  out  the  brakes 

Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 

There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy  :  for  the  starlight  dews 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  distil, 
Weeping  themselves  away  till  they  infuse 
I ».  <*p  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars  !  whi<h  arc  the  poetry  of  heaven. 

If,  in  your  bright  leaves,  we  would  read  the  fate 

Of  men  and  emi)ires,  —  *t  is  to  be  forgiven. 
That,  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  tlestiiiies  (/erleap  their  luortal  state. 


388  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star. 

The  sky  is  changed  !  and  such  a  change !     O  Night 
And  Storm  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among. 

Leaps  the  live  thunder !  —  not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue ; 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  night, 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber ;  let  me  Ije 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,  — 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  —  a  phosphoric  sea,  — 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 

And  now  again  't  is  black  ;  and  now  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain  mirth. 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye, 

AVith  night  and  clouds  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful :  —  the  far  roll 

Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knell 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless,  —  if  I  I'est. 

But  where,  of  ye,  0  tempests !  is  the  goal  1 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  1 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  1 


THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW.  389 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom, 

With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 

And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb,  — 

And  glowing  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  ;  and  thus  I, 

Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leraan,  may  find  room, 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 


XCIIL  — THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

HORACE  GREELEY. 

Horace  Grkeley  was  bom  in  Amherst,  New  Hampshire,  in  1811.  Obliged  by 
)iis  father's  poverty  to  rely  on  his  own  resources,  he  began  at  the  age  of  fifteen  to 
learn  the  art  of  printing.  After  four  years  In  a  new8i»aper  office  in  Vermont,  he 
sought  employment  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  he  arrived  in  August,  1831.  It 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  obtained  work  ;  for  tlie  personal  appearance  and  manners 
of  the  poor  boy  were  not  particularly  attractive,  and  he  was  entirely  without  fHends 
in  the  metropolis. 

But  his  indomitable  energy  and  industry  overcame  all  obstacles.  Successively  he 
published  "Tlie  Morning  Post,"  "  The  New-Yorker."  "The  Jeffcrsonian,"  "The  Log- 
Cabin."  and  "  The  New  York  Tribune,"  and  finally  became  recognized  as  the  foremost 
of  American  jotimalists.  The  influence  which  he  exerted,  first  as  a  Whig,  and  after- 
wanls  as  a  Republican,  was  great  A  self-made  man,  his  sympathy  with  the  toiling 
mas-tes  was  intense.  His  great  theme,  though  stated  with  a  hundred  varying  titles, 
was  the  emanci|iation  of  labor  and  the  elevation  of  the  laboring  man. 

In  1872  he  was  the  candidate  of  the  Liberal  Republicans  and  Democrats  for  the 
Presidency  of  the  United  States.  His  campaign  speeches,  which  were  very  numerous, 
were  chancteriie*!  by  extraordinary  scope,  vigor,  and  fertility  of  thought  He  sur- 
vived his  defeat  but  a  few  weeks. 

Among  his  published  works  are  "Hints  toward  Reforms,"  "Recollections  of  a 
Busy  Life,"  "Glances  at  Europe,"  and  "The  American  Conflict"  The  chief  char- 
acteristics of  his  style  are  clearness,  conciseness,  and  a  fiery  enei:gy.  The  following 
extract,  showing  that  he  was  not  Ucking  in  grace  or  tenderness  of  sentiment,  forms  the 
closing  pages  of  bis  "Glances  at  Europe." 

I^UT  I  must  not  linger.     The   order  to   emlmrk   is 
-^  given  ;  our  f^ood  ship  "Baltic  is  ready  ;  another  hour 
and  I  shall  have  left  England  and  this  Continent,  proba- 


390  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

bly  forever.  With  a  fervent  good-by  to  the  friends  I 
leave  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  I  turn  my  steps  gladly 
and  proudly  toward  my  own  loved  western  home, — 
toward  the  land  wherein  man  enjoys  larger  opportunities 
than  elsewhere  to  develop  the  better  and  the  worse 
aspects  of  his  nature,  and  where  evil  and  good  have  a 
freer  course,  a  wider  arena  for  tlieir  inevitable  struggles, 
than  is  allowed  them  among  the  heavy  fetters  and  cast- 
iron  forms  of  this  rigid  and  wrinkled  Old  World. 

Doubtless,  those  struggles  will  long  he  arduous  and 
trying;  doubtless,  the  dictates  of  duty  will  there  often 
bear  sternly  away  from  the  halcyon  bowers  of  jwpularity ; 
doubtless,  he  who  would  be  singly  and  wholly  right  must 
there  encounter  ordeals  as  severe  as  those  which  here  try 
the  souls  of  the  would-be  champions  of  progress  and 
liberty.  But  political  freedom,  such  as  white  men  enjoy 
in  the  United  States,  and  the  mass  do  not  enjoy  in 
Europe,  not  even  in  Britain,  is  a  basis  for  confident  and 
well-grounded  hope ;  the  running  stream,  though  turbid, 
tends  ever  to  self-purification  ;  the  obstructed,  stagnant 
pool  grows  daily  more  dank  and  loatlisome. 

Believing  most  firmly  in  the  ultimate  and  perfect  tri- 
umph of  good  over  evil,  I  rejoice  in  the  existence  and 
diffusion  of  that  liberty  which,  while  it  intensifies  the 
contest,  accelerates  the  consummation.  Neither  blind  to 
her  erroi's,  nor  a  pander  to  her  vices,  I  rejoice  to  feel 
that  every  hour  henceforth,  till  I  see  her  shores,  must 
lessen  the  distance  which  divides  me  from  my  country, 
whose  advantages  and  blessings  this  four  months'  absence 
has  taught  me  to  appreciate  more  clearly  and  to  prize 
more  deeply  than  before. 

With  a  glow  of  unwonted  rapture  I  see  our  stately 
vessel's  prow  turned  toward  the  setting  sun,  and  strive 


TUh  UKRITAGE.  391 

to  realize  that  only  some  ten  days  separate  me  from 
those  I  know  and  love  best  on  earth.  Hark !  the  last 
gun  announces  tliat  the  mail-boat  has  left  us,  and  that 
we  are  fairly  afloat  on  our  ocean  journey;  the  shores 
of  Europe  recede  from  our  vision ;  the  watery  waste  is 
all  around  us ;  and  now,  with  God  above  and  death  be- 
low, our  gallant  bark  and  her  clustered  company  together 
brave  the  dangers  of  the  miglity  deep.  May  infinite 
mercy  watcli  over  our  onward  patli  and  bring  us  safely 
to  our  several  homes ;  for  to  die  away  from  home  and 
kindred  seems  one  of  the  saddest  calamities  that  could 
befall  me. 

This  mortal  tenement  would  rest  uneasily  in  an  ocean 
shroud  ;  tliis  spirit  reluctantly  resign  that  tenement  to  the 
cJiill  and  pitiless  brine ;  these  eyes  close  regretfully  on  the 
stranger  skies  and  bleak  iuhospitality  of  the  sullen  and 
stormy  main.  No  !  let  me  see  once  more  the  scenes  so 
well  remembered  and  beloved ;  let  me  grasp,  if  but  once 
again,  the  hand  of  friendship  and  hear  the  thrilling  ac- 
cents of  proved  affection,  and  when,  sooner  or  later,  the 
hour  of  mortal  agony  shall  come,  let  my  last  gaze  be  fixed 
on  eyes  that  will  not  forget  me  when  I  am  gone,  and  let 
my  ashes  repose  in  that  congenial  soil  which,  however 
I  may  there  be  esteemed  or  hated,  is  still 
"  My  own  green  land  forever  ! " 


XCIV.  — THE   HERITAGR 

JAMBS  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

THE  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  piles  of  brick  and  stone  and  gold  ;, 
And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 


392  THE  .SIXTH   READER. 

And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dai-es  to  wear  a  garment  old  ]  — 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares  : 
The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn  ; 

Some  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares  ; 
And  soft,  wliite  hands  would  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  suit  liis  turn  ;  — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fV. . 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants  : 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare ; 

With  sated  heart  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair^;  — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  would  not  car©  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  sf)ii  inh*  lit  ] 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart ; 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  evisry  useful  toil  and  art ;  — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inh<i  it  ? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things ; 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit ; 

Content  that  from  employment  springs  ; 

A  heart  tliat  in  his  labor  sings ;  — 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 


THE  HERITAGE.  393 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  1 
A  patience  learned  by  being  poor ; 

Courage,  if  sorrow  comes,  to  bear  it ; 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ;  — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil 

That  with  all  other  level  stands ; 
Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whitens,  soft,  white  hands ; 

That  is  the  best  crop  from  the  lands ;  — 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state ! 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine,^ 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Work  only  makes  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ;  — 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  mo. 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod. 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 
Both  children  of  the  danys  dear  God ; 

Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast, 

By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ;  — 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  ^e, 
Well  worth  ;i  lifo  to  hold  in  fee. 


394  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

XCV.  — JENNY  LIND'S  GKEETINGS  TO 
AMERICA. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

Bayard  Tatlor  was  born  in  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  in  1825.  At  the  a^e 
of  twenty-one  he  8ud<lenly  became  well  known  by  hiit  imblishetl  record  of  a  tour 
througli  Eun)i)e,  entitled  **  Views  Afoot ;  or,  Euroite  seen  with  Kna^tsack  and  Staff." 
Ill  l.*m>  he  became  one  of  the  e<iitors  of  the  "  New  York  Tribune,"  to  which  he  con- 
tributed a  series  of  letters  dfscrii»tive  of  his  exi»erience  in  Euroi»e.  ••  El  Dorado  ;  or. 
Adventures  in  the  Path  of  Empire,"  published  in  1850.  an  interesting  account  of  his 
travels  in  the  far  west  and  particuUrly  in  California,  added  Ut  his  reputation.  With 
a  love  of  adventure  not  inferior  to  that  of  Sir  John  Mandeville  or  Marco  Polo,  and 
with  a  vision  as  acute  as  Livingstone's,  he  Journeyed  for  several  years  in  Euroi»e, 
Africa,  Syria,  China,  and  Japan,  and  then,  with  a  grace  of  style  not  surpassed  by 
that  of  any  other  fiunoos  traveller,  he  gave  to  the  world  the  results  of  his  observa- 
tions in  his  "Journey  to  Central  Africa,"  "Visit  to  India.  China.  Loo  Choo,"  etc., 
"  Land  of  the  Saracens,"  "Summer  and  Winter  I*ictur«3  of  Sweden,  Denmark,  and 
Lapland,"  "Travels  in  Greece  and  Russia,"  "At  Home  and  Abroad."  etc.  He  is 
a  graceful  poet  as  well  as  prose  writer.  Itaving  published  "  Book  of  Romances,  Lyrics, 
and  S<mg8,"  *♦  Poems  of  the  Orient,"  "  Poems  of  Home  and  Travel,"  and  nuwy  fugi- 
tive pieces  that  have  enriched  the  columns  of  tlie  "  AtUuitic  Monthly  "  and  other 
magazines.  His  greatest  i>oetical  production  is  his  translation  of  Goethe's  "  Faust," 
in  which  the  original  metres  are  often  imitated  with  exquisite  skill 

I  GREET  with  a  full  heart  the  land  of  the  west, 
Whose  banner  of  stars  o'er  the  earth  is  unrolled, 
Whose  empire  o'ershadows  Atlantic's  wide  breast. 

And  opes  to  the  sunset  its  gateway  of  gold ; 
The  land  of  the  mountain,  the  land  of  the  lake, 

And  rivers  that  roll  in  magnificent  tide, 
Where  tlie  souls  of  the  mighty  from  slumber  awake 
To  hallow  the  soil  for  whose  freedom  they  died. 

Thou  cradle  of  empire,  though  wide  be  the  foam 

That  severs  the  land  of  my  fathers  from  thee, 
I  hear  from  thy  children  the  welcome  of  home. 

For  song  has  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  the  free  ; 
And  long  as  thy  waters  shall  gleam  in  the  sun, 

And  long  as  thy  heroes  remember  their  scars, 
Be  the  hamls  of  thy  children  united  as  one, 

And  may  peace  shed  her  light  on  thy  banner  of  stars  • 


HYMN  OF  PRAISE  BY  ADAM  AND  EVE.       395 


XCVL  — liiM.N   OF  PRAISE   BY  ADAM  AND 
EVE. 

MILTON. 

JoBM  Milton  wu  born  in  London.  December  9, 1608;  and  died  November  8. 1674. 
Bi«  i«  one  of  the  greatest  names  in  all  literature ;  and  of  course  it  wuuld  be  inifiossi- 
ble  in  the  comi|«ss  or  a  brief  notice  like  thitt  to  |M>int  out,  except  in  the  most  cumory 
uuwner,  the  elements  of  his  intellectual  supremacy.  His  "Comus,"  "Lycidas," 
*•  L'Alleyro,"  "  U  Penaeroso."  and  "  Arcades  "  were  written  before  he  was  thirty  years 
old  ;  •*  Paradise  Lust,"  "  Paradise  Re^aiued,"  and  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  were  all  pul»- 
lished  after  his  fifty-ninth  year,  and  many  years  after  he  had  been  totally  blind.  His 
prose  worlcs  were  the  j,Towth  of  the  iutermediate  peri«jd. 

Milton's  early  poetry  is  full  of  morning  freshness  and  the  spirit  of  unworn  youth; 
the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  characterized  by  the  highest  sublimity,  the  most  various 
learning,  and  the  noblest  pictures;  and  the  "Paradise  Regained"  and  "Samson 
Agonistes "  have  a  serene  and  solemn  grandeur,  depeening  in  the  latter  into  auster- 
ity ;  while  all  are  markiHl  by  imaginative  power,  purity,  and  elevation  of  tone,  and 
the  finest  harmony  of  verse. 

His  prose  works,  which  are  partly  in  Latin  and  partly  in  English,  were  for  the  most 
part  called  forth  by  the  ecclesiastical  and  political  controversies  of  the  stormy  period 
in  which  he  lived.  They  are  vigorous  and  elo(iuent  in  style,  and  abound  in  passages 
of  the  highest  lieauly  and  loftiest  tone  of  sentiment. 

Milton's  character  is  liardly  less  worthy  of  admiration  than  his  genius.  Spotless  in 
morals;  simjdc  in  his  tastes ;  of  ardent  piety  ;  l)earing  with  cheerfulness  the  burdens 
of  blindness,  poverty,  and  neglect;  bending  his  genius  to  the  humblest  duties,  —  he 
]iresents  an  exalte*l  model  of  excellence,  in  which  we  can  Hnd  nothing  to  qualify  our 
reverence,  except  a  certain  severity  of  temi)er,  and  perhaps  a  somewhat  impatient  and 
intolerant  spirit. 

The  following  passage  is  ttom  the  fifth  book  of  "  Paradise  Lost" 

THESE  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty  !     Thine  this  universal  frame, 
Tlius  wondrous  fair !     Thyself  how  wondrous  then, 
Unsixjakable  !  wlio  sittest  above  these  heavens. 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
SiKjak,  ye  who  bast  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels  ;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing ;  ye  in  heaven. 
On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 


396  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crownest  the  smiling  mom 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere. 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  worid  both  eye  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater ;  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climbest, 

And  when  high  noon  ha.st  gained ;  and  when  thou  fallest. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 

Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honor  to  the  worid's  great  Author  rise ; 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky, 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 

liising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds  that  from  four  quarters  blow. 

Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow. 

Melodious  munnurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  ;  ye  binls, 

That  singing  up  to  heaven's  gate  ascend. 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth  and  stately  tread  or  lowly  creep  ; 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 

To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade. 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord,  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good ;  and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  aught  of  evil  or  concealed, 

Disperse  it,  as  more  light  dispels  the  dark. 


UNION  AND  LIBERTY.  397 

XCVIL  — UNION   AND   LIBERTY. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 

Oliteb  WEHDEtx  Hounss.  M.  D.,  waa  bom  in  Cambridge,  Massachnsetta,  August 
20.  1809 ;  waa  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  18*29,  and  cooinienced  the  practice  of 
medicine  in  Boston  in  1836.  He  baa  been  for  many  years  one  of  the  professore  in  the 
medical  department  of  Harvanl  College,  and  he  is  understood  to  be  highly  skilfal 
tioth  in  the  theory  and  ]»racti(*e  of  his  profeasion.  He  began  to  write  })oetry  at  quite 
an  early  age.  Hl«  longest  pnxluctious  are  occasioiud  poeniH  which  have  been  recite<l 
before  literary  societies,  and  re«'eived  with  very  great  favor.  His  style  is  brilliant, 
aiNirkling,  and  terse ;  and  nuiny  of  his  heroic  stanzas  remind  us  of  the  point  and 
condensation  of  Pope.  In  his  shorter  poems  he  is  sometimes  grave,  and  sometimes 
gay.  When  in  the  foniier  mood,  he  cliarms  \xk  by  his  truth  and  manliness  of  feeling, 
and  his  sweetness  of  sentiment ;  when  in  the  latter,  he  delights  us  with  the  glance 
and  play  of  the  wildest  wit  and  the  richest  humor.  Everything  that  he  writes  is 
carefully  finished,  and  reals  on  a  Iwsis  of  sound  sense  and  shrewd  observation.  Dr. 
Holmes  also  eixjoys  high  reputation  and  wide  popularity  as  a  prose  writer.  He  is  the 
author  of  "The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,"  "The  Professor  at  the  Brcakfast.- 
Table,"  and  "  Elsie  Venner,"  works  of  fiction  which  originally  appeared  in  the  "At- 
lantic Monthly  Magazine,"  and  of  various  occa-sioual  discourses. 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 
Borne  through  our  battle-field's  thunder  and  flame. 
Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore ; 
While  through  the  sounding  sky, 
Loud  rings  the  nation's  cry,  — 
Union  and  Liberty  !  —  one  evermore ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  nation. 

Pride  of  her  cliildrcn,  and  honored  afar. 
Let  the  wide  l)eams  of  thy  full  constellation 

Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a  star ! 

Empire  unsceptred  !  what  foe  shlill  assail  thee, 

liearing  the  sUtiulard  of  Lil^rty's  van  1 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail  theo. 

Striving  with  mon  fr>r  the  birthright  of  man  ! 


398  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Yet,  if  by  madness  and  treachery  bliglitcd, 

Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou  must  draw, 

Then,  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united. 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and  Law ! 

Lord  of  the  Universe  !  shield  us  and  guide  us, 

Trusting  thee  always,  through  shadow  and  sun  ! 
Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  1 
Keep  us,  0  keep  us,  the  Many  in  One ! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright. 

Sprinkled  with  starry  light. 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore ; 

While  through  the  sounding  sky. 

Loud  rings  the  nation's  cry,  — 
Union  and  Liberty  !  —  one  evermore  ! 


XCVIIL  — JAMES   OTIS. 

SUMNER. 

The  following  is  an  extrart  tram  a  speech  by  Charles  Sninner,  delivered  in  the  Sen- 
ate, Februarj'  2, 1866,  on  a  Joint  resolution  carrying  out  the  gnaniuty  of  a  republican 
fomi  of  government 

THE  cause  of  human  liberty,  in  this  great  controver- 
sy, found  a  voice  in  James  Otis,  a  young  lawyer  of 
eloquence,  learning,  and  courage,  whose  early  words,  like 
the  notes  of  the  morning  bugle  mingling  with  the  dawn, 
awakened  the  whole  country.  Asked  by  the  merchants 
of  Boston  to  speak  at  the  bar  against  WTits  of  assistance, 
issued  to  enforce  ancient  acts  of  Parliament,  he  spoke 
both  as  lawyer  and  as  patriot,  and  so  doing  became  a 
statesman.  His  speech  was  the  most  important,  down  to 
that  occasion,  ever  made  on  this  side  of  the  ocean. 


JAMES  OTIS,  390 

An  earnest  contemporary  who  was  present  says,  "  No 
harangue  of  Demosthenes  or  Cicero  ever  had  such  effect 
u[)on  the  globe  as  that  speech."  It  was  the  harbinger  of 
a  new  era.  For  live  hours  the  brilliant  orator  unfolded 
the  character  of  these  acts  of  Parliament;  for  live  houra 
he  held  the  court-room  in  rapt  and  astonished  admiration ; 
but  his  effort  ascended  into  statesmanship  when,  alter 
showing  that  the  colonists  were  witliout  representiition  in 
Parliament,  he  cried  out,  that,  notwithstanding  this  exclu- 
sion, Parliament  had  undertaken  to  "  impose  taxes,  and 
enonnous  taxes,  buixlensome  taxes,  oppressive,  ruinous, 
intolerable  taxes";  and  then,  glowing  with  generous  in- 
dignation at  tliis  injustice,  he  launched  that  thunderbolt 
of  politi(^il  truth,  "Taxation  without  representation  is 
Tyranny."  From  the  narrow  court-room  where  he  spoke, 
the  thunderbolt  passed,  smiting  and  blasting  the  intoler- 
able pretension.  It  was  the  idea  of  John  Locke ;  but  the 
fervid  orator,  with  tongue  of  flame,  gave  to  it  tlie  intensity 
of  his  own  genius.  He  found  it  in  a  book  of  philosophy  ; 
but  he  sent  it  forth  a  winged  messenger  blazing  in  the  sky. 

John  Adams,  then  a  young  man  just  admitted  to  the 
bar,  was  i)resent  at  the  scene,  and  he  dwells  on  it  often 
with  sympathetic  delight.  There  in  the  old  Town  House 
of  IJoston  sat  the  live  judges  of  tlie  Province,  with  Hutch- 
inson as  chief  justice,  in  robes  of  scarlet,  cambric  bands, 
and  judicial  wigs ;  and  there,  too,  in  gowns,  bands,  and 
tie-wigs,  were  the  barristers.  Conspicuous  on  the  wall 
were  full-length  portraits  of  two  British  monarchs,  Charles 
II.  and  James  II.,  while  in  the  corners  were  the  likenesses 
of  Massachusetts  governors.  In  tliis  presence  the  great 
oration  was  delivered.  The  patriot  lawyer  had  refused 
(•ompen.sation.  "  In  such  a  cause  as  this,"  said  he,  "  I 
dospise  a  fee."     He  six)ke  for  country  and  for  mankind. 


400  THE  ^IXTU  READER. 

Firmly  he  planted  himself  on  the  rights  of  man,  which, 
he  insisted,  were  by  the  everlasting  law  of  nature  inherent 
and  inalienable  ;  and  these  rights,  he  nobly  proclaimed, 
were  common  to  all  without  distinction  of  color.  To  sup- 
pose them  surrendered  in  any  other  way  than  by  equal 
rules  and  general  consent^  was  to  suppose  men  idiots  or 
mad,  whose  acts  are  not  binding. 

But  he  especially  flew  at  two  arguments  of  tyranny : 
first,  that  the  colonists  were  "  virtually  "  represented  ;  and, 
secondly,  that  there  was  such  a  difference  between  direct 
and  indirect  taxation,  that  while  the  former  might  be 
questionable,  the  latter  was  not.  To  these  two  apologies 
he  replied,  first,  that  no  such  phrase  as  "  virtual  represen- 
tation "  was  known  in  law  or  constitution ;  that  it  is 
altogether  subtlety  and  illusion,  wholly  unfounded  and 
absurd ;  and  that  we  must  not  be  cheated  by  any  such 
phantom,  or  other  fiction  of  law  or  politics :  and  then,  with 
the  same  crushing  force,  he  said  that  in  the  absence  of 
representation  all  taxation,  whether  direct  or  indirect, 
whether  internal  or  external,  whether  on  land  or  tradt  \\  a> 
equally  obnoxious  to  the  same  unhesitating  condemnation. 

The  effect  was  electric.  The  judges  were  stunned  into 
silence,  and  postponed  judgment.  The  people  were 
aroused  to  a  frenzy  of  patriotism.  "  American  Indepen- 
dence," says  John  Adams,  in  the  record  of  his  impressions, 
"  was  then  and  there  born ;  the  seeds  of  patriots  and 
heroes  wei-e  then  and  there  sown,  to  defend  the  vigorous 
youth.  Every  man  of  a  crowded  audience  appeared  to 
me  to  go  away,  as  I  did,  ready  to  take  arms  against  writs 
of  assistance.  Then  and  there  was  the  first  scene  of  the 
first  act  of  opposition  to  the  arbitrary  claims  of  Great 
Britain.  Then  and  there  the  child  Independence  was 
born." 


THE  PAUPERS  DEATH-BED.  401 


XCIX.  — THE   PAUPER'S  DEATH  ^^Y^^. 

C.  a  SOUTH  EY. 

Caboliitk  Axif  B0WI.1S,  who  became,  June  4, 1839,  the  second  wife  of  Robert  Sou  they, 
WM  born  «t  l.yniington,  Ent{lnnd,  December  0.  1780;  and  died  July  20, 1854.  She  is 
the  author  of  "  Chapter*  on  Churchyards,"  "  Ellen  Pltz  Arthur,"  and  other  worlcs. 
She  is  bejjt  known  by  her  poetr>',  which  is  remarkable  for  tenderness  and  depth  of 
feeling. 

TREAD  softly,  —  bow  the  head 
In  reverent  silence  low  ; 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger,  however  great, 
With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There  is  one  in  that  poor  shed, 
One  by  that  paltry  bed, 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 
Lo !  Death  doth  keep  his  state ; 
Enter,  —  no  crowds  attend  ; 
Enter,  —  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 
One  silent  woman  stands, 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound,  — 
An  infant  M'ail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppressed,  —  again 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  paiting  groan. 


.102  THE  SIXTH  READER. 


O  change  !  O  wondrous  change  ! 


Burst  are  the  prison  bars ; 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

O  change  !  stupendous  change ! 
Tliere  lies  the  soulless  clod  ! 
The  sun  eternal  breaks,  — 
The  new-born  immortal  wak^s,  - 
AVakes  with  his  God  ! 


C  — SPARTACUS  TO  THE  GLADIATORS. 

KELLOGG. 

Elijah  Kellooo  wnii  bora  in  Portland,  Maine,  and  was  gruduatni  at  Bowdoin  Col- 
lege in  18*0.  In  J844  he  waa  ordained  over  tlie  Congregational  Sm-jety  of  HaritswelL 
In  1856  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  liecanie  })a8t<tr  of  the  Marineni'  Church,  under  the 
I>atrunage  of  the  Boston  Seamen's  Friend  Society.  He  has  since  coutiuued  to  reside 
there. 

The  following  is  a  supposed  speech  of  Spartarus.  who  was  a  real  personage.  He  was 
a  Thracian  by  birth,  and  a  gUtdiator,  who  heade«i  a  rebellion  of  gladiators  and  slaves 
against  the  Romans,  which  waa  not  sui»prea8e«l  until  after  a  long  struggle,  in  which 
he  »howe«l  great  energy  and  ability.  A  prator  was  a  Roman  magistrate.  Tlie  vestal 
virgins  wer«  priMtesses  of  Vesta.  Tliey  luwl  a  conspicuous  yXm-e  at  the  gladiatorial 
shows.  The  ancients  attached  great  importance  to  the  rites  of  sepulture,  and  b»'lieved 
that,  if  the  VwHly  were  not  buried,  the  soul  could  not  cross  the  Styx,  and  reach  the 
Elysian  Fields,  tlie  abtnle  of  the  departed  spirits  of  the  good. 

IT  had  l)i'L'ii  a  day  of  triumph  .in  Cai)ua.  Lvniuhis. 
retuniing  with  victorious  eagles,  had  amused  the  pop- 
ulace with  the  sports  of  the  amphitheatre  to  an  extent 
liitherto  unknown  even  in  that  luxurious  city.  The 
shouts  of  revelry  had  died  away  ;  the  roar  of  the  lion  had 
ceased  ;  the  last  lo^rer  had  retired  from  the  banquet,  and 
the  lights  in  the  palace  of  tlie  victor  were  extinguished. 


SPAIiTAL'ii>    T"    in  I-    '''i-M'l^^'     •'■  ^  -^^^-^ 

Tlie  moon,  piercing  the  tissue  of  fleecy  clouds,  silvered  tlie 
(k'wdrop  on  the  corselet  of  the  Roman  sentinel,  and  tipped 
the  dark  waters  of  Voltiimus  with  wavy,  tremulous  light. 
It  was  a  night  of  holy  calm,  when  the  zephyr  sways  tlie 
young  spring  leaves,  and  whispers  among  the  hollow  reeds 
its  dreamy  music.  No  sound  was  heard  but  the  last  sob 
of  some  weary  wave,  telling  its  story  to  the  smooth  peb- 
bles of  the  beach,  and  tlieu  all  wa«  still  {is  the  breast  when 
the  spirit  has  departed. 

In  the  deep  recesses  of  the  ampitheatre  a  band  of  glad- 
iators were  crowded  together,  —  their  muscles  still  knotted 
with  the  agony  of  conflict,  the  foam  upon  their  lips,  and 
the  scowl  of  battle  yet  lingering  upon  their  brows,  — when 
Spartacus,  rising  in  the  midst  of  that  grim  assemblage, 
tlius  a<.ldres.sed  them  :  — 

"  Ye  call  me  chief,  and  ye  do  well  to  call  him  chief 
who,  for  twelve  long  years,  has  met  upon  the  arena  every 
sliape  of  man  or  beast  tliat  the  broad  Empire  of  Rome 
could  furnislv,  and  yet  never  has  lowered  his  arm.  And 
if  there  be  one  among  you  who  can  say  that,  ever,  in  pub- 
lic fight  or  private  bmwl,  my  actions  did  belie  my  tongue, 
let  him  step  forth  and  say  it.  If  there  be  three  in  all 
your  throni:  dan'  faro  me  on  the  bloody  sand,  let  tliom 
come  on  ! 

•*  Yet,  I  was  not  always  thus,  a  hired  butcher,  a  savage 
chief  of  savage  men.  My  father  was  a  reverent  man,  who 
feared  great  Jupiter,  and  brouglit  to  the  rural  deities  his 
offerings  of  fruits  and  flowers.  He  dwelt  among  the  vine- 
clad  rocks  and  olive  groves  at  the  foot  of  Helicon.  Aly 
early  life  ran  quiet  as  the  brook  l>y  which  I  sported  1 
was  taught  to  prune  the  vine,  to  tend  the  flock  ;  and  then, 
at  noon,  I  gathered  my  sheep  beneatli  the  shade,  and 
pl.iyed  upon  the  shepheixl's  flute.     I  had  a  friend,  the  son 


404  THE  SIXTH   READER. 

of  our  neighbor ;  we  led  our  flocks  to  the  same  pasture, 
and  shared  together  our  rustic  meaL 

"One  evening,  after  the  sheep  were  folded,  and  we  were 
all  seated  beneath  the  myrtle  that  shaded  our  cottage,  my 
grandsire,  an  old  man,  was  telling  of  Marathon  and  Leuc- 
tra,  and  how,  in  ancient  times,  a  little  band  of  Spartans, 
in  a  defile  of  the  mountains,  withstood  a  whole  army.  I 
did  not  then  know  what  war  meant;  but  my  cheeks 
burned.  I  knew  not  why ;  and  1  clasped  the  knees  of 
that  venerable  man,  till  my  mother,  parting  the  hair  from 
off  my  brow,  kissed  my  throbbing  temples,  and  bade  me 
go  to  rest,  and  think  no  more  of  those  old  tales  and  savage 
wars, 

"  That  very  night  the  Romans  landed  on  our  shore,  and 
the  clasli  of  steel  was  heard  within  our  quiet  vale.  1  saw 
the  breast  that  had  nourished  me  trampled  by  the  iron 
hoof  of  the  war-horse ;  the  bleeding  body  of  my  father 
flung  amid  the  blazing  rafters  of  our  dwelling.  To-day 
I  killed  a  man  in  the  arena,  and  when  I  broke  his  helmet 
clasps,  behold  !  he  was  my  friend !  He  knew  me, — smiled 
faintly,  —  gasped,  —  and  died;  the  same  sweet  smile  that 
I  had  marked  upon  his  face  when,  in  adventurous  l>oy- 
hood,  we  scaled  some  lofty  cliff  to  pluck  the  first  ripe 
grapes,  and  bear  them  home  in  childish  triumph,  I  told 
the  pnetor  he  was  my  friend,  noble  and  brave,  and  I 
begged  his  body,  that  I  might  burn  it  upon  the  funeral- 
pile,  and  mourn  over  him.  Ay,  on  my  knees,  amid  the 
dust  and  blood  of  the  arena,  I  begged  that  boon,  while 
all  the  Roman  maids  and  matrons,  and  those  holy  virgins 
they  call  vestal,  and  the  rabble,  shouted  in  mockery,  deem- 
ing it  rare  sport,  forsooth,  to  see  Rome's  fiercest  gladiator 
turn  pale,  and  tremble  like  a  very  child,  l^efore  that  piece 
of  bleeding  clay ;  but  the  pnetor  drew  back  as  if  I  were 


SPARTACU^i   TU   Tiih    ' .  i.A  I 'I  AT"i:S.  405 

pollution,  and  sternly  said,  '  Let  the  carrion  rot !  Tliere 
are  ;io  noble  men  but  Romans !  *  And  he,  deprived  of 
funeral  rites,  must  wander,  a  hapless  ghost,  beside  the 
waters  of  that  sluggish  river,  and  look  —  and  look  —  and 
look  in  vain  to  the  bright  Elysian  Fields  where  dwell  his 
ancestors  and  noble  kindred.  And  so  nmst  you,  and  so 
must  T,  die  like  dogs ! 

"O  Rome  !  Rome  !  thou  hast  been  a  tender  nurse  to  me  ! 
Ay,  thou  hast  given  to  that  poor,  gentle,  timid  shepherd- 
lad,  who  never  knew  a  harsher  sound  than  a  flute-note, 
muscles  of  iron  and  a  heart  of  flint ;  taught  him  to  drive 
the  sword  through  rugged  brass  and  planted  mail,  and 
warm  it  in  tlie  m.arrow  of  his  foe !  to  gaze  into  the  glaring 
eyeballs  of  the  fierce  Numidian  lion,  even  as  a  smooth- 
cheeked  boy  upon  a  laughing  girl.  And  he  shall  pay  thee 
]>ack  till  thy  yellow  Tiber  is  red  as  frothing  wine,  and  in 
its  deepest  ooze  thy  life-blood  lies  curdled ! 

"  Ye  stiind  here  now  like  giants,  as  ye  are  !  the  strength 
of  brass  is  in  your  toughened  sinews ;  but  to-morrow  some 
Roman  Adonis,  breathing  sweet  odors  from  his  curly  locks, 
shall  come,  and  with  his  lily  fingers  pat  your  brawny 
<lioulders,  and  bet  his  sesterces  upon  your  blood  !  Hark ! 
1  lear  ye  yon  lion  roaring  in  his  den  ?  'T  is  three  days 
since  he  tasted  meat ;  but  to-morrow  he  shall  break  his 
t;ust  upon  your  flesh  ;  and  ye  shall  be  a  dainty  meal 
tor  him. 

If  ye  are  brutes,  then  stand- here  like  fat  oxen  waiting 
for  the  butcher's  knife ;  if  ye  are  men,  follow  me  !  strike 
down  you  sentinel,  and  gain  the  mountain  passes,  and 
thei-e  do  bloody  work  as  did  your  sires  at  old  Thermopylae  f 
'  "  f  >arta  dead  ?  Is  the  old  Grecian  spirit  frozen  in  your 
.  that  ye  do  crouch  and  cower  like  base-born  slaves 
ith   your  masters  lash  ?      0  comrades !    warriors ! 


406  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

Thracians !  if  we  must  tight,  lot  us  fight  for  ourselves ;  if 
we  must  slaugliter,  let  us  slaughter  our  oppressors ;  if  we 
must  die,  let  us  die  under  the  open  sky,  by  the  bright 
waters,  in  noble,  honorable  battle." 


CL  — LOCHIEUS  WARNING. 

CAMPBELL. 

In  1745,  Charles  EdwanI,  granditon  of  James  II..  landed  in  ScoUand,  and  soon 
gathered  around  him  an  army  with  which  he  marc-hed  iiitu  Eiii^land,  in  order  to  re- 
gain i)os8e«8lon  of  the  throne  ttotn  which  his  aucestors  had  been  driven.  He  was 
brilliantly  successful  at  first,  and  i«netrated  into  EngUnd  as  far  as  Derby  ;  but  he 
was  then  obliged  to  retreat,  and,  after  many  disasters,  his  array  was  entirely  defeated 
by  the  English,  under  command  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  at  Culloden. 

Lochiel,  the  head  of  the  warlike  clan  of  the  Cauien)ns,  was  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful of  the  Highland  chiefUiins.  and  a  zealous  supitortiT  of  the  cUims  of  Charles 
Edward.  Among  the  Highlanders  are  certain  persons  supposed  to  have  the  gift  of 
second  sight ;  that  is.  the  power  of  foreseeing  future  events.  Lochiel,  on  his  way  to 
join  Charles  Edward,  is  represcnteil  as  meeting  one  of  these  seers,  who  endeavors  in 
vain  to  dissuade  him  fh>m  his  purpose. 

Seer,  Lochiel. 

SEER.     Lochiel,  Lochiel,  lieware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight ; 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown ; 
Woe,  woo  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  flown ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain. 
And  their  hoof-beaten  boapms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark  !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war. 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  farl 
T  is  thine,  0  Glenullin  !  whose  bride  shall  await. 
Like  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING,  407 

Weep,  Albin  !  *  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
O  weep  !  but  tliy  tears  cannot  numb^T  the  dead  ; 
For  a  mertilcss  swoixl  on  Cullotlcn  shall  wave,  — 
Culloden,  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LocHiKL.     Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-tolling  scor  ; 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotanl,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Sekr.     Ha  !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  : 
Say,  nished  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Comijanionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
IJut  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah,  home  let  him  si)eed,  —  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  eml>ers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  casti 
'T  is  the  fire  shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  liis  eyry  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
O  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood  I 

LocniEL.     False  wizard,  avaunt !    I  have  marshalled  my  clan ; 
Their  swortls  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  tnie  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath. 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  tho  mrk  ! 
I'ut  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause. 
When  Albin  her  claymore  in<lignantly  draws ; 
•  Tlie  poetical  name  of  Scotland. 


408  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clan  Ronald  the  dauntless  and  Moray  the  proud ; 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  army : — 

Seer.     Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day  ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal  : 
'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden*s  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  blood-hounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 
Lo,  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  ^'ials  of  wrath, 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  jMith  ! 
Now,  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight :  * 
Ilise  !  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'T  is  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors, 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  1     Where  1 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  des^xiir. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  1 
Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war  drum  is  mulfled,  and  black  is  the  bier; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling ;  O,  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell  J 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Aticursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet. 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to  beat. 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale  — 

Lochiel.     Down,  soothless  insulter !     I  trust  not  the  tale. 
Tliough  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untaLtited  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

*  Alluding  to  the  perilows  adventures  and  final  escape  of  Charles,  after  the 
battle  of  Culloden. 


EXTRACT  FROM  RIENZI.  409 

While  the  kinclling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name. 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 


CIL  — EXTRACT   FROM   RIENZI. 

MISS  MITFORD.  * 

Maxy  Ronux  MnroKD  was  bora  at  Alraaford,  in  EngUnd.  December  16, 1786 ; 
and  died  Janoaiy  10,  1865.  She  pabliahed  a  number  of  works,  comprising  poems, 
sketches,  and  dramas,  of  which  the  be8t  and  most  popular  is  "  Our  Village,"  a  collec- 
tion of  pictures  of  rural  life  and  manners,  written  in  a  graceful  and  animated  style, 
and  pervaded  with  a  most  kindly  and  sympathetic  spirit.  She  was  very  (Hendly  to 
our  country,  and  edited  three  volumes  of  "  Stories  of  American  Life  by  American 
Authors." 

The  following  extract  is  from  "  Rienzi,"  the  most  successful  of  her  dramas,  founded 
on  the  fate  and  fortiuies  of  a  celebrated  personage  of  that  name,  who  in  the  fourteenth 
century  was  for  a  brief  period  the  ruler  of  Rome.  This  speech  is  made  by  Rienzi  to  a 
Roman  noble  who  was  petitioning  for  the  life  of  a  brother  who  had  been  condemned 
to  death.     A  brother  of  Rienzi's  had  been  killed  by  a  servant  of  this  same  noble. 

AND  darest  talk  thou  to  me  of  brothers  1     Thou, 
Whose  groom  —  wouldst  have  me  break  my  own  just 
laws. 
To  save  thy  brother  ?  thine  !     Hast  thou  forgotten 
When  that  most  beautiful  and  blameless  boy, 
The  prettiest  piece  of  innocence  that  ever 
Breathed  in  this  sinful  world,  lay  at  thy  feet, 
Slain  by  thy  pampered  minion,  and  I  knelt 
Before  thee  for  redress,  whilst  thou  —  didst  never 
Hear  talk  of  retribution  !     This  is  justice. 
Pure  justice,  not  revenge !     Mark  well,  my  lords,  — 
Pure,  etjual  justice.     Martin  Orsini 
Had  open  trial,  is  guilty,  is  condemned, 
And  he  shall  die  !     Lords, 
If  ye  could  range  before  me  all  the  peers, 


410  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

Prelates,  and  potentates  of  Christendom,  — 

The  holy  pontiff  kneeling  at  my  knee. 

And  emperors  crouching  at  my  feet,  to  sue 

For  this  great  robber,  —  still  I  should  be  blind 

As  justice.     But  this  very  day,  a  wife. 

One  infant  folded  in  her  arms,  and  two 

Clinging  to  the  poor  rags  that  scarcely  hid 

Her  squalid  form,  grasped  at  my  bridle-rein 

To  beg  her  husband's  life,  —  condemned  to  die 

For  some  vile  petty  theft,  some  paltry  scudi ; 

And,  whilst  the  fiery  war-horse  chafed  and  reared, 

Sliaking  his  crest,  and  plunging  to  get  free, 

There,  midst  the  dangerous  coil  unmoved,  she  stood. 

Pleading  in  broken  words  and  piercing  shrieks. 

And  hoarse,  low,  shivering  sobs,  the  very  cry 

Of  nature  !     And,  when  I  at  last  said  no,  — 

For  I  said  no  to  her,  —  she  flung  herself 

And  those  poor  innocent  babes  between  the  stones 

And  my  hot  Arab's  hoofs.     We  saved  them  all,  — 

Thank  Heaven,  we  saved  them  all !  but  I  said  no 

To  that  sad  woman,  midst  her  jshrieks.     Ye  dare  not 

Ask  me  for  mercy  now. 


BOOKS,  411 

cm.  — BOOKS. 

E.  P.  WHIPPLE. 

IF  such  were  the  tendency  of  that  great  invention 
which  leaped  or  bridged  the  barriers  separating  mind 
from  mind  and  heart  from  heart,  who  shall  calculate  its 
effect  in  promoting  private  happiness  ?  Books,  light- 
houses erected  in  the  great  sea  of  time,  —  books,  the 
precious  depositories  of  the  thoughts  and  creations  of 
genius,  —  books,  by  whose  sorcery  times  past  become 
time  present,  and  the  whole  pageantry  of  the  world's  his- 
tory moves  in  solemn  procession  before  our  eyes,  —  these 
were  to  visit  the  firesides  of  the  humble,  and  lavish  the 
treasures  of  the  intellect  upon  the  poor. 

Could  we  liave  Plato  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton  in 
our  dwellings,  in  the  fi^ll  vigor  of  their  imaginations,  in 
the  full  freshness  of  their  liearts,  few  scholars  would  be 
affluent  enough  to  afford  them  physical  support ;  but  the 
living  images  of  theij  minds  are  within  the  eyes  of  alL 
From  their  pages  their  mighty  souls  look  out  upon  us  in 
all  their  grandeur  and  beauty,  undimmed  by  the  faults  and 
follies  of  earthly  existence,  consecrated  by  time.  Precious 
and  priceless  are  the  blessings  which  the  books  scatter 
around  our  daily  paths.  We  walk,  in  imagination,  with 
the  noblest  spirits,  through  the  most  sublime  and  enchant- 
ing regions,  —  regions  which,  to  all  tliat  is  lovely  in  the 
forms  and  color^^  of  o^rtii 

Id  the  gleam, 
The  light  tJiat  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream.*' 

A  motion  of  the  hand  brings  all  Arcadia  to  sight.  The 
war  of  Troy  can,  at  our  bidding,  rage  in  the  narrowest 
cluiiiibLT.      "Without  stilling  from  our  firesides,  we  may 


412  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

roam  to  the  most  remote  regions  of  the  earth,  or  soar  into 
realms  where  Spencer's  shapes  of  unearthly  beauty  flock 
to  meet  us,  where  Milton's  angels  peal  in  our  ears  the 
choral  hymns  of  Paradise.  Science,  art,  literature,  phi- 
losophy,—  all  that  man  has  thought,  all  that  man  has 
done,  —  the  experience  that  has  been  bought  with  the 
sufferings  of  a  hundred  generations,  —  all  are  garnered  up 
for  us  in  the  world  of  books. 

There,  among  realities,  in  a  "substantial  world,"  we 
move  with  the  crowned  kings  of  thought.  There  our  minds 
have  a  free  range,  our  hearts  a  free  utterance.  Reason  is 
confined  within  none  of  the  partitions  which  trammel  it 
in  life.  The  hard  granite  of  conventionalism  melts  away 
as  a  thin  mist.  We  call  things  by  their  right  names.  Our 
lips  give  not  the  lie  to  our  hearts.  We  bend  the  knee 
only  to  the  great  and  good.  We  despise  only  the  despi- 
cable ;  we  honor  only  the  honoinble.  In  that  world,  no 
divinity  hedges  a  king,  no  accident  of  rank  or  fashion 
ennobles  a  dunce  or  shields  a  knave.  There,  and  almost 
only  there,  do  our  affections  have  free  play.  We  can  se- 
lect our  companions  from  the  most  richly  gifted  of  the 
sons  of  God,  and  they  are  companions  who  will  not  de- 
sert us  in  poverty,  or  sickness,  or  disgrace. 

When  everything  else  fails,  —  when  fortune  frowns, 
and  friends  cool,  and  health  forsakes  us,  —  when  this 
great  world  of  forms  and  shows  appears  a  "  two-edged  lie, 
which  seems  but  is  not,"  —  when  all  our  earth-clinging 
hopes  and  ambitions  melt  away  into  nothingness,  — 

**  Like  snow-falls  on  a  river. 
One  moment  white,  then  gone  forever,"  — 

we  are  still  not  without  friends  to  animate  and  console 
us,  —  friends,  in  whose  immortal  countenances,  as  they 
look  out  upon  us  from  books,  we  can  discern  no  change ; 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A   CHURCHYARD.         1 1  '. 

who  will  dignify  low  fortunes  and  humble  life  with  their 
kingly  presence ;  who  will  people  solitude  with  shapes 
more  glorious  than  ever  glittered  in  palaces;  who  will 
consecrate  sorrow,  and  take  the  sting  from  care ;  and  who, 
in  the  long  houi-s  of  despondency  and  weakness,  will  send 
healing  to  the  sick  heart,  and  enei-gy  to  the  wasted  bi-ain. 
Well  might  Milton  exclaim,  in  that  impassioned  speech 
for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing,  wliere  every  word 
leaps  with  intellectual  life,  "Who  kills  a  man,  kills  a 
reasonable  creature,  God's  image;  but  who  destroys  a 
good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it 
were  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  upon  the 
earth;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a 
master  spirit,  embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  for 
a  life  beyond  life  ! " 


CIV— ELEGY  WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

GRAY. 

Thomas  Grat  wm  born  in  London,  December  26,  1716;  and  died  July  SO,  1771. 
Though  he  has  vrritten  but  little,  he  holds  a  high  rank  in  English  literature  from  the 
energy,  splendor,  and  perfect  finish  of  his  poetical  style.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
learned  men  of  his  time,  and  his  letters  are  delightful  fh)m  their  plajrfnlness  and  grace. 
His  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyarrl  "  is,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  piece  of  poetry 
in  the  Engli.sb  langoage.  "  It  abounds,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "with  images  which  find 
a  mirror  in  every  mind,  and  with  sentiments  to  which  every  bosom  returns  an  echo." 

THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Xow  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  .stillness  holds, 


414  77//;   SIXTH   READER. 

vSave  where  the  beetle  wlieels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tiuklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Emjh  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  liainltt  sleep. 

The  breezy  lall  of  incense-bre<uiun-  im.in, 

The  swallow  twittering  fi-om  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  thorn  from  tlioir  lowly  1)0(1. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour  :  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


ELKQY   WRITTK\    IS     \    >  HURGHYARD.         415 

Nor  you,  yo  prouil,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

WJiere  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


"Or»^ 


416  THE  SIXTH  READER 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

liack  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page. 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  sOuL 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  bom  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  li^le  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest  -, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 


ELEOY  IVRITTKS    I\     i      IIURCHYARD.        417 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  solwr  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh« 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelt  by  th*  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fome  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 
Their  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned^ 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
K'on  in  our  nshes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thic,  wlu),  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  'chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

!<r,t....  IJn.lv.Ml  spirit  shall  inquire  t'<v  r>t'\  — 

11.4.i\  ......II.   ii.Miy-headed  swain  may  >;i\. 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  ])eep  of  dawn, 
Hnishing  ^^^th  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  me4?t  tin'  Sim  niton  tlio  uplan<l  l;iwn. 


418  THE  srxTrr  reader. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  ot  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  \vTeathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  mom  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  : 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

"  The  next^  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  anay^ 

Slow  through  tlie  churchway  path  we  saw  liim  borne. 

Approach,  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thoni." 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  liis  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 
He  gave  to  misery,  all  he  had,  a  tear,  — 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

(There  they  alike  iu  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEI'.  11,> 

CV.  — HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP. 

MRS.  BROWNING. 

Elisabeth  Barritt  BBOwniKa  was  born  In  London  in  1809.  She  was  married  to 
Robert  Browning  In  1846.  and  die<l  June  29,  1861.  The  greater  part  of  her  married  life 
was  passed  in  Italy,  a  country  in  whose  fate  and  fortunes  she  toolc  an  enthusiastic  in- 
terest Uer  first  vohniie  was  published  in  1826.  In  1833  she  published  a  transUtion  of 
**  Prometheus  Bound."  In  these  early  volumes  there  is  littleortlmt  originality  and  vigor 
which  mark  her  hitcr  i>oems,  such  as  "Aurora  Leigh,"  "CasaGuidi  Windows,"  and  the 
rctuarkable  sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.  She  was  a  woman  of  rare  and  high  genius, 
marked  by  imagination  and  originality  of  treatment,  and  hanlly  less  so  by  her  in- 
tense sympathy  with  every  form  of  suffering.  She  is  sometimes  obscure  in  expression ; 
her  poetry  is  sometimes  wanting  in  i>erfect  taste,  and  ft«quently  needs  compression ; 
but  she  is  unequalled  for  power  of  thought,  splendor  of  coloring,  and  a  varied  and 
paniooate  energy'.  She  was  not  less  distinguished  for  her  learning  than  for  her 
jenlos.  She  was  an  admirable  Greek  .scholar,  and  published  in  one  of  the  English 
periodicals  a  series  of  striking  tran.Hlation.s  from  the  Greek  Christian  poets.  She  was  a 
person  of  very  delicate  organization,  and  from  the  pressure  of  constant  ill  health  com- 
pelled to  lead  a  life  of  constant  seclusion.  During  her  married  life  in  Italy,  she  became 
known  to  several  Americans,  who  found  her  as  remarkable  for  sweetness,  simplicity, 
and  unaffected  grace  of  manner  as  for  genius  and  learning.  The  Italians  have  marked 
their  sense  of  her  enthusiastic  interest  in  their  cause,  by  un  Italian  inscription  on  the 
Walls  of  the  house  in  Florence  in  which  she  lived  for  many  years,  and  where  she  wrote 
Vier  "  Casa  Guidi  Windows." 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deej), 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this,  — 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  "  ] 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved. 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep. 
The  patriots  voice  to  teach  and  rouse. 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows,  — 
}h>  -ivpt).  hisl-]..v..i  <l..<.p! 

What  do  we  give  to  uur  beloved  1 
A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 


420  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake,  — 

He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  ! "  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep ; 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  his  happy  slumber  when 

He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
0  delved  gold,  the  wailer's  heap  ! 

0  strife  and  curse  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all. 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill ; 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap ; 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead. 
He  giveth  his  belovM  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say,  —  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  HEARD,  — 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  ! 

For  me  my  heart,  that  erst*  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

*  Formerly. 


THE  HONORED  DEAD.  421 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummer's  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  giveth  his  belov^  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  One  most  loving  of  you  all 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


CVI  —  THE  HONORED   DEAD. 

H.  W.  BEECHER 

Hbvby  Ward  Bbecher  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  June  24. 1813 ;  gradu- 
ated at  Amherst  College  In  1834 ;  studied  theology  under  his  father,  the  Kev.  Lyman 
Beecher ;  and  since  1847  has  been  pastor  of  tl>e  Plymouth  Church  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
He  is  an  eloquent  and  effective  preacher,  and.  as  a  lecturer  to  the  people,  he  enjoys  an 
unrivalled  popularity,  earned  by  the  happy  combination  of  humor,  pathos,  earnest- 
ness, and  genial  sympathy  with  humanity,  which  his  discourses  present.  He  is  a 
roan  of  great  energy  of  temperament,  fervently  opposed  to  every  form  of  oppression 
and  ii^astice,  and  with  a  poet's  love  of  nature.  His  style  is  rich,  glowing,  and  ex- 
uberant The  following  extract  is  fh)m  the  "  Star  Papers,"  a  volume  made  up  of 
papers  which  originally  appeared  in  the  "New  York  Independent" 

HOW  bright  are  the  honors  which  await  those  who, 
with  sacred  fortitude  and  patriotic  patience,  have 
endured  all  things  that  they  might  save  their  native  land 
from  division  and  from  the  power  of  comiption !  The 
honored  dead !  They  that  die  for  a  good  cause,  are  re- 
deemed from  death.  Their  names  are  gathered  and  gar- 
nered. Their  memory  is  precious.  Each  place  grows 
proud  for  them  who  were  bom  there.  There  is  to  be 
erelong,  in  every  village  and  in  every  neighborhood,  a 
fjlowing  pride  in  its  martyred  heroes. 


422  THM:  sixth    nEADKV. 

rs Tablets  sliall  preserve  their  names.  Pious  love  shall 
renew  their  inscriptions  as  time  and  the  unfeeling  ele- 
ments decay  them.  And  the  national  festivals  shall  give 
multitudes  of  precious  names  to  the  orator's  lips.  Chil- 
dren shall  grow  up  under  more  sacred  inspirations  whose 
elder  brothers,  dying  nobly  for  their  country,  left  a  name 
that  honored  and  inspired  all  who  bore  it.  Orphan  chil- 
dren shall  find  thousands  of  fathers  and  mothers  to  love 
and  help  those  whom  dying  heroes  left  as  a  legacy  to  the 
gratitude  of  the  public. 

0,  tell  me  not  that  tliey  are  dead,  —  that  generous 
host,  that  airy  army  of  invisible  heroes  !  They  hover  as 
a  cloud  of  witnesses  above  this  nation.  Are  they  dead 
that  yet-«peak  louder  than  we  can  speak,  and  a  more  uni- 
vei-sal  language  ?  Are  they  dead  that  yet  act  ?  Are  they 
dead  that  yet  move  upon  society,  and  inspire  the  people 
with  nobler  motives  and  more  heroic  patriotism  ? 

Ye  that  mourn,  let  gladness  mingle  with  your  tears. 
He  was  your  son  ;  but  now  he  is  the  nation's.  He  made 
.your  household  bright ;  now  his  example  inspii-es  a  thou- 
sand households.  Dear  to  his  brothers  and  sisters,  he  is 
now  brother  to  every  generous  youth  in  the  land. 

Before,  he  was  narrowed,  appropriated,  shut  up  to  you. 
Now  he  is  augmented,  set  free,  and  given  to  all.  He  has 
died  from  the  family,  that  he  might  live  to  the  nation. 
Not  one  name  shall  be  foi-gotten  or  neglected;  and  it 
shall  by  and  by  be  confessed,  as  of  an  ancient  hero,  that 
he  did  more  for  Iiis  country  by  his  death  than  by  his 
whole  life. 

Every  mountain  and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured  name ; 
^ery  river  shall  keep  some  solemn  title ;  every  valley  and 
every  lake  shall  cherish  its  honored  register ;  and  till  the 
mountains  are  worn  out,  and  the  rivers  forget  to  flow,  till 


AMKRWA   THE  OLD   WORLD.  423 

the  clouds  are  weary  of  replenishing  springs,  and  the 
springs  forget  to  gush,  and  the  rills  to  sing,  shall  their 
names  be  kept  fresh  with  reverent  honors  which  are  in- 
Bcribed  upon  the  book  of  National  Remembrance ! 


CVIL— AMERICA  THE  OLD  WORLD. 

LOUIS  AOASSIZ. 

Lons  John  RtrpoLPH  AnA5»is  was  born  at  Mottler,  near  Ijikv  Nonrhat<»l  In  Swit- 
lerUod.  May  28,  1807;  and  died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts),  December  15,  1873. 
H.  ■  '  ■  '  ninelf  to  natural  hlstor)' from  his  early  youth.  He  gained  at  an  early 
ai;  lip  of  Cuvier  and  Humboldt,  by  whom  he  was  wannly  encouraged  and 

aiih  .    ...lH>r8  and  studies.     The  thrt-e  subjects  which  claimed  his  special  atten- 
tion were  the  fossil  Hshes,  fresh-water  llshes  o  Euroi>e,  and  the  formation  of  glaciers, 
on  all  of  which  he  publi8he<l  elaborate  and  valuable  works.     In  1846,  being  In  the  en- 
joyment of  a  world-wide  reimtation  as  a  naturalist,  he  came  to  America.     In  1848  he 
was  appointed  Professor  of  Zoology  and  Geology  in  the  Lawrence  Scientific  School  at 
I„'e,  where  he  resiilcd  until  the  time  of  his  death.     He  gave  an  immense  Im- 
ihe  study  of  natunil  history  by  hi.s  indefatigable  activity  and  the  magnetism 
rsonal  presence  and  manners.     He  <levoted  himself  with  great  energy  to  the 
1  of  a  Museum  of  Comparative  Zoology  at  Cambridge.     In  1865  he  made  a 
jouniey  to  Rrazil,  the  results  of  which  were  published  in  a  volume  by  Mrs. 
He  was  a  foreign  associate  of  the  Institute  of  France,  and  a  member  of  the 
■  ientiflc  bodies  of  Europe,  trom  many  of  which  he  had  received  medals  and 
Mth.r  marks  of  distinction.     He  was  warmly  beloved  by  his  friends,  and  has  trained  a 
1)o«ly  of  enthusiastii!  young  naturalists  by  whom  the  labors  he  left  unfinished  will  be 
continued  with  bis  zeal  and  In  his  spirit 

FIRST-BORN  among  the  continents,  though  so  much 
later  in  culture  and  civilization  than  some  of  more 
recent  birth,  America,  so  far  as  her  physical  liistory  is 
concerned,  has  been  falsely  denoniiimted  tlie  New 
World.  Hers  was  the  first  dry  land  lifted  out  of  the 
waters,  hers  the  first  shores  washed  by  the  ocean  that 
enveloped  all  the  earth  beside;  and  while  Europe  was 
represented  only  by  islands  rising  here  and  there  above 
the  sea,  America  already  stretched  an  unbroken  line  of 
land  from  Nova  Srotia  to  thft   Far  West. 


424  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

There  was  a  time  when  our  eartii  was  in  a  state  of 
igneous  fusion,  when  no  ocean  bathed  it,  and  no  atmos- 
phere surrounded  it,  when  no  wind  blew  over  it,  and  no 
rain  fell  upon  it,  but  an  intense  heat  held  all  its  mate- 
rials in  solution.  In  those  days,  the  rocks,  which  are  now 
the  very  bones  and  sinews  of  our  mother  Earth,  —  her 
granites,  her  porphyries,  her  basalts,  her  sienites,  —  were 
melted  into  a  liquid  mass.  ^ 

From  artefidan  wells,  from  mines,  from  geysers,  from 
hot-springs,  a  mass  of  facts  has  been  collected,  proving 
incontestably  the  lieated  condition  of  all  substances  at  a 
certain  depth  below  the  earth's  surface ;  and  if  we  need 
more  positive  evidence,  we  have  it  in  the  fiery  eruptions 
that  even  now  bear  fearful  testimony  to  the  molten^ocean 
seething  within  the  globe  and  forcing  its  way  out  from 
time  to  time.  The  modern  progi'ess  of  geology  has  led 
us,  by  successive  and  perfectly  connected  steps,  back  to  a 
time  when  what  is  now  only  an  occasional  and  rare  phe- 
nomenon was  the  normal  condition^of  our  earth;  when 
those  internal  fires  were  enclosed  in  an  envelope  so  thin 
that  it  opposed  but  little  resistance  to  their  frequent  out- 
break, and  they  constantly  forced  themselves  through 
this  crust,  pouring  out  melted  materials  that  subse- 
quently cooled  and  consolidated  on  its  surface.  So  con- 
stant were  these  eruptions,  and  so  slight  was  the  resist- 
ance they  encountered,  that  some  portions  of  the  earlier 
rock-deposits  are  perforated  with  numerous  chimneys, 
narrow  tunnels  as  it  were,  bored  by  the  liquid  masses 
that  poured  out  through  them  and  greatly  modified  their 
first  condition. 

There  was  another  element  without  the  globe,  equally 
powerful  in  building  it  up.  Fire  and  water  wrought 
together  in  this  work,  if  not  always  harmoniously,  at 


AMERICA    THE  OLD   WOULD.  425 

least  with  equal  force  and  persistency.  Water  is  a  very 
active  agent  of  destruction,  but  it  works  over  again  the 
materials  it  pulls  down  or  wears  away,  and  builds  them 
up  anew  in  other  forms. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  part  of  the  world,  certainly  none 
familiar  to  science,  where  the  early  geological  periods  can 
be  studied  with  so  much  ease  and  precision  as  in  the 
United  States.  Along  their  northern  borders,  l)etween 
Canada  and  the  United  States,  there  runs  the  low  line  of 
hills  known  as  the  Laurentian  Hills.  Insignificant  in 
height,  nowhere  rising  more  than  fifteen  hundred  or  two 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  these  are  never- 
theless the  first  mountains  that  broke  the  uniform  level 
of  the  earth's  surface  and  lifted  themselves  above  the 
waters.  Their  low  stature,  as  compared  with  that  of 
other  more  lofty  mountain-ranges,  is  in  accordance  with 
an  invariable  rule,  by  which  the  relative  ages  of  moun- 
tains may  be  estimated.  The  oldest  mountains  are  the 
lowest,  while  the  younger  and  more  recent  ones  tower 
above  their  elders,  and  are  usually  more  torn  and  dislo- 
cated also.  This  is  easily  understood,  when  we  remem- 
ber that  all  mountains  and  mountain-chains  are  the 
result  of  upheavals,  and  that  the  violence  of  the  outbreak 
must  have  been  in  proportion  to  the  strength  of  the 
resistance. 

When  the  crust  of  the  earth  was  so  thin  that  the 
heated  masses  within  easily  broke  through  it,  they 
were  not  thrown  to  so  great  a  height,  and  formed  com- 
paratively low  elevations,  such  as  the  Canadian  hills  or 
the  mountains  of  Bretagne  and  Wales.  But  in  later 
times,  when  young,  vigorous  giants,  such  as  the  Alps,  the 
Himalayas,  or,  later  still,  the  Rocky  Mountains,  forced 
their  way  out  from  their  fiery  prison-house,  the  crust  of 


426  THK  SIXTH  READER. 

the  earth  was  much  thicker,  and  fearful  indeed  must 
have  been  the  convulsions  which  attended  their  exit 

Such,  then,  was  the  earliest  American  land,  —  a  long, 
naiTow  island,  almost  continental  in  its  proportions,  since 
it  stretched  from  the  eastern  borders  of  Can^a  nearly  to 
the  point  where  now  the  base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
meet  the  plain  of  the  Mississippi  Valley.  AVe  may  still 
walk  along  its  ridge  and  Tcnow  that  we  ti-ead  upon  the 
ancient  granite  that  first  divided  the  waters  into  a  north- 
em  and  southern  ocean;  and  if  our  imaginations  will 
carr>'  us  so  far,  we  may  look  down  toward  its  base  and 
fancy  how  the  sea  washed  against  this  earliest  shore  of  a 
lifeless  world. 

This  is  no  romance,  but  the  bold,  simple  truth  ;  for  the 
fact  that  this  granite  band  was  lifted  out  of  the  waters  so 
early  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  has  not  since  been 
submerged,  has,  of  course,  prevented  any  subsequent  de- 
posits from  forming  above  it  And  this  is  true  of  all  the 
northern  part  of  the  United  States.  It  has  been  lifted 
gradually,  the  beds  deposited  in  one  period  being  sub- 
sequently raised,  and  forming  a  shore  along  which  those 
of  the  succeeding  one  collected,  so  that  we  have  their 
whole  sequence  before  us. 

For  this  reason  the  American  continent  offers  facilities 
to  the  geologist  denied  to  him  in  the  so-called  Old  World, 
where  the  earlier  deposits  are  comparatively  hidden,  and 
the  broken  character  of  the  land,  intersected  by  moun- 
tains in  every  direction,  renders  his  investigation  still 
more  difficult 


A    TRIBUTE   TO  MASSACHUSkTTS.  427 

CVIIL  — A  TRIBUTE  TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 

8UMNEB. 

Trs  foUowing  is  an  extract  from  Mr.  Somner's  speech  in  the  Senate,  May  19  and 
20,  1856. 

GOD  be  praised,  Massachusetts,  honored  Common- 
wealth, tliat  gives  me  the  privilege  to  plead  for 
Kansas  on  this  floor,  knows  her  rights,  and  will  maintain 
them  firmly  to  the  end.  Tliis  is  not  the  first  time  in  his- 
tory that  her  public  acts  have  been  impeached  and  her 
public  men  exposed  to  contumely.  Thus  was  it  in  the 
olden  time,  when  she  began  the  great  battle  whose  fruits 
you  all  enjoy.  But  never  yet  lias  she  occupied  a  position 
so  lofty  as  at  this  hour.  By  the  intelligence  of  her  popu- 
lation, by  the  resources  of  her  industry,  by  her  commerce, 
cleaving  every  wave,  by  her  manufactures,  various  as 
human  skill,  by  her  institutions  of  education,  various  as 
human  knowledge,  by  her  institutions  of  benevolence, 
various  as  human  suffering,  by  the  pages  of  her  scholars 
and  historians,  by  the  voices  of  her  poets  and  orators,  she 
is  now  exerting  an  influence  more  subtile  and  command- 
ing than  ever  before,  —  shooting  her  far-darting  rays 
wherever  ignorance,  wretchedness,  or  wrong  prevails,  and 
flashing  light  even  upon  those  who  travel  lar  to  persecute 
1m  1  Such  is  Massachusetts;  and  1  am  proud  to  believe 
tliat  you  may  as  well  attempt  with  puny  arm  to  topple 
down  the  earth-rooted,  lieaven- kissing^  granite  which 
crowns  the  historic  sod  of  Bunker  Hill,  as  to  change  her 
fixed  resolve  for  Freedom  everywhere. 

Sir,  to  men  on  earth  it  belongs  only  to  deserve  success, 
not  to  secure  it ;  and  I  know  not  how  soon  the  efforts  of 
Massachusetts  will  wear  the  crown  of  triumph.  But  it 
cannot  be  that  she  acts  wrong  for  herself  or  her  children. 


428  '    THE  SIXTH  READER. 

when  in  this  cause  she  encounters  reproach.  No :  by  the 
generous  souls  once  exposed  at  Lexington,  —  by  those 
who  stood  arrayed  at  Bunker  Hill,  —  by  the  many  from 
her  bosom  who,  on  all  the  fields  of  the  first  great  struggle, 
lent  their  vigorous  arms  to  the  cause  of  all,  —  by  the 
children  she  has  borne  whose  names  alone  are  national 
trophies,  is  Massachusetts  now  vowed  irrevocably  to  this 
work.  What  belongs  to  the  faithful  servant  she  will  do 
in  all  things,  and  Providence  shall  determine  the  result 


CIX— NAPOLEON;    OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE 
WORLD. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emsbsom.  an  Americm  Msayist  and  poet,  was  born  in  Boston,  May 
25, 1803  :  and  graduated  at  Harvard  College,  1821.  lu  1829  he  was  settled  as  a  Unita- 
rian clergyman  in  Boston,  tmtj  in  1882,  he  diaaolTed  bis  connection  with  his  people 
on  account  of  some  differences  of  opini<Hi  respecting  the  Lord's  Supper.  In  1835  he 
went  to  reside  in  Concord,  Mass.,  which  has  been  his  home  ever  since.  He  iff  a  man 
of  peculiar  and  original  genius,  combining  spiritual  and  imaginative  beanty  with  sharp 
practical  insight  He  has  no  system  in  his  thoughts,  and  his  ideas  are  not  connected 
by  any  law  of  logical  sequence.  He  enunciates  truth  in  aphorisms,  and  his  transi- 
tions are  sudden  and  abrupt  His  style  is  remailcable  for  its  condensed  beauty.  No 
writer  has  given  utterance  to  a  greater  number  of  thoughts  that  have  passed  as  quo- 
tations into  couimon  circulation.  His  influence  is  wide,  but  it  is  rather  exerted 
through  the  minds  of  his  disciples  than  directly.  He  is  a  bold  questioner  of  every- 
thing, and  submits  all  received  opinions  in  theology,  politics,  literatore,  and  morals 
to  the  test  f.f  pure  and  independent  reason.  As  a  lecturer  he  finds  great  favor  with 
thoughtful  and  cultivated  audiences,  but  the  common  mind  can  hardly  follow  his 
sudden  changes  and  abrupt  transitions.  His  manner  is  very  attractive,  combining 
in  a  high  degree  dignity,  simplicity,  and  impulsiveness.  He  has  written  some 
poetry,  the  best  of  which  has  the  same  characteristics  of  l>eauty  and  originality  as 
his  prose  writings. 

AMONG  the  eminent  persons  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, Bonaparte  is  far  the   best  known  and  the        ^ 
most  powerful,  and  owes  his  predominance  to  the  fidel- 
ity with  which  he  expresses  the   tone   of  thought  and 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WOULD.      429 

belief,  the  aims  of  the  masses  of  active  and  cultivated 
men. 

Bonaparte  was  the  idol  of  common  men,  because  he 
had  in  transcendent  degree  the  qualities  and  powers  of 
tommon  men. 

Bonaparte  wi*ought,  in  common  with  that  great  class 
he  represented,  for  power  and  wealth,  —  but  Bonaparte, 
specially,  without  any  scruple  as  to  the  means.  All  the 
sentiments  which  embarrass  men's  pursuit  of  these  ob- 
jects he  set  aside.  The  sentiments  were  for  women  and 
children. 

Napoleon  renounced,  once  for  all,  sentiments  and  aflec- 
tions,  and  would  help  himsell*  witli  his  hands  and  his 
head.  "With  him  is  no  miracle,  and  no  magic.  He  is  a 
worker  in  brass,  in  iron,  in  wood,  in  earth,  in  roads,  in 
buildings,  in  money,  and  in  troops,  and  a  very  consistent 
and  wise  master-workman.  He  is  never  weak  and  lite- 
rary, but  acts  with  the  solidity  and  the  precision  of 
natural  agents.  He  has  not  lost  his  native  sense  and 
sympathy  with  things.  Men  give  way  before  such  a 
man,  as  before  natural  events. 

But  Bonaparte  superadded  to  this  mineral  and  animal 
force,  insight  and  generalization,  so  that  men  saw  in  him 
combined  the  natural  and  the  intellectual  power,  as  if  the 
sea  and  land  had  taken  flesh  and  begun  to  cipher.  There- 
fore the  land  and  sea  seem  to  presuppose  him.  He  came 
unto  his  own,  and  they  received  liim. 

The  art  of  war  was  the  game  in  which  he  exerted  his 
arithmetic.  It  consisted,  according  to  bim,  in  having 
always  more  forces  than  the  enemy  on  the  point  where 
the  enemy  is  attacked,  or  where  he  attacks;  and  his 
whole  talent  is  strained  by  endless  manoeuvre  and  evolu- 
tion, to  march  always  on  the  enemy  at  an  angle,  and 


430  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

destroy  his  forces  iu  detail.  It  is  obvious  that  a  very 
small  force,  skilfully  and  rapidly  manoeuvring,  so  as 
always  to  bring  two  men  against  one  at  the  point  of 
engagement,  will  be  an  overmatch  for  a  much  larcrer 
body  of  men. 

Nature  must  have  far  the  greatest  share  in  every  suc- 
cess, and  so  in  his.  Such  a  man  was  wanted,  and  such  a 
man  was  born ;  a  man  of  stone  and  iron,  capable  of  sit- 
ting on  horseback  sixteen  or  seventeen  hours,  of  going 
many  days  together  without  rest  or  food,  except  by 
snatches,  and  with  the  sjxjed  and  spring  of  a  tiger  in 
action ;  a  man  not  embarrassed  by  any  scruples ;  com- 
pact, instant,  selfish,  prudent,  and  of  a  perception  which 
did  not  suffer  itself  to  be  balked  or  misled  by  any  pre- 
tences of  others,  or  any  superstition,  or  any  heat  or  haste 
of  his  own. 

"  My  hand  of  iron,"  he  said,  "  was  not  at  the  extremity 
of  my  arm,  it  was  immediately  connected  with  my  head." 
He  respected  the  power  of  nature  and  fortune,  and 
ascribed  to  it  his  superiority,  instead  of  valuing  himself, 
like  inferior  men,  on  his  opinionativeness,  and  waging 
war  with  nature.  His  favorite  rhetoric  lay  in  allusion  to 
his  star ;  and  he  pleased  himself,  as  well  as  the  people, 
when  he  styled  himself  the  "Child  of  Destiny." 

"They  charge  me,"  he  said,  "with  the  commission  of 
great  crimes.  Men  of  my  stamp  do  not  commit  crimes. 
Nothing  has  been  more  simple  than  my  elevation ;  't  is  in 
vain  to  ascribe  it  to  intrigue  or  crime ;  it  was  owing  to 
the  peculiarity  of  the  times,  and  to  my  reputation  of 
having  fought  well  against  the  enemies  of  my  country. 
I  have  always  marched  with  the  opinion  of  great  masses, 
and  with  events." 

Napoleon  understood  his  business.     Here  was  a  man 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.      431 

who,  iu  each  moment  and  emergency,  knew  what  to  do 
next  It  is  an  immense  comfort  and  refreshment  to  the 
spirits,  not  only  of  kings,  but  of  citizens.  Few  men  have 
any  next ;  they  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  plan, 
and  are  ever  at  the  end  of  their  line,  and,  after  each 
action,  wait  for  an  impulse  from  abroad. 

His  victories  were  only  so  many  doors,  and  he  never 
for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  his  way  onward  in  the  dazzle 
and  uproar  of  the  present  circumstance.  He  knew  what 
to  do,  and  he  flew  to  his  mark.  He  would  shorten  a 
stmight  line  to  come  at  his  object.  Horrible  anecdotes 
may,  no  doubt,  be  collected  from  his  history,  of  the  price 
at  which  he  bought  his  successes ;  but  he  must  not  there- 
fore be  set  down  as  cruel,  but  only  as  one  who  knew  no 
impediment  to  his  will;  not  bloodthirsty,  not  cruel, — 
but  woe  to  what  thing  or  person  stood  in  his  way  !  Not 
bloodthii-sty,  but  not  sparing  of  blood,  —  and  pitiless. 

On  any  point  of  resistance,  he  concentrated  squadron 
on  squadron  in  overwhelmning  numbers,  until  it  was 
swept  out  of  existence.  To  a  regiment  of  horse  chasseurs 
at  Lobenstein,  two  days  before  the  battle  of  Jena,  Napo- 
leon said,  "  My  lads,  you  must  not  fear  death ;  when  sol- 
•  liers  brave  death,  they  drive  him  into  the  enemy's  ranks." 

Eacli  victory  was  a  new  weapon.  "  My  power  would 
tall  were  I  not  to  support  it  by  new  achievements.  Con- 
(juest  has  made  me  what  I  am,  and  conquest  must  main- 
tain me."  He  felt,  with  every  wise  man,  that  as  much 
life  is  needed  for  conservation  as  for  creation.  We  are 
always  in  peril,  always  in  a  bad  plight,  just  on  the  edge 
of  destruction,  and  only  to  l)e  saved  by  invention  and 
courage. 

This  vigor  was  guarded  and  tempered  by  the  coldest 
prudence  and  punctuality.     A  thunderbolt  in  the  attack, 


432  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

he  was  found  invulnerable  in  his  intrenchments.  His 
very  attack  was  never  the  inspiration  of  courage,  but  the 
result  of  calculation. 

The  lesson  he  teaches  is  that  which  vigor  always 
teaches,  —  that  there  is  always  room  for  it.  To  what 
heaps  of  cowardly  doubts  is  not  that  man's  life  an  answer. 
When  he  appeared,  it  was  the  belief  of  all  military  men 
that  there  could  be  nothing  new  in  war ;  as  it  is  the  belief 
of  men  to-day,  that  nothing  new  can  be  undertaken  in 
politics,  or  in  church,  or  in  letters,  or  in  trade,  or  in  farm- 
ing, or  in  our  social  manners  and  customs ;  and  as  it  is, 
at  all  times,  the  belief  of  society  that  the  world  is  made 
up.  But  Bonaparte  knew  better  than  society ;  and,  more- 
over, knew  that  he  knew  better. 

Bonaparte  was  singularly  destitute  of  generous  senti- 
ments. The  highest  placed  individual  in  the  most  culti- 
vated age  and  population  of  the  world,  he  has  not  the 
merit  of  common  truth  and  honesty.  He  is  unjust  to  his 
generals ;  egotistic  and  monopolizing ;  meanly  stealing 
the  credit  of  their  great  actions  from  Kellermann,  from 
Bernadotte ;  intriguing  to  involve  his  faithful  Junot  in 
hopeless  bankruptcy,  in  order  to  drive  him  to  a  distance 
from  Paris,  because  the  familiarity  of  his  manners  offends 
the  new  pride  of  his  throne. 

He  is  a  boundless  liar.  The  official  paper,  his  "  Moni- 
teurs,"  and  all  his  buUetins,  are  proverbs  for  saying  what 
he  wished  to  be  believed ;  and  worse,  —  he  sat,  in  his 
premature  old  age,  in  his  lonely  island,  coldly  falsifying 
facts  and  dates  and  characters,  and  giving  to  history  a 
theatrical  eclat.  like  all  Frenchmen,  he  has  a  passion 
for  stage  effect.  Every  action  that  breathes  of  generosity 
is  poisoned  by  this  calculation.  His  star,  his  love  of 
glory,  his  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  are  all 
French. 


THE  LORD  OF  BUTRAGO.  433 

He  did  all  that  in  him  lay,  to  live  and  thrive  without 
nionil  principle.  It  was  tiie  nature  of  tilings,  the  eternal 
law  of  man  and  the  world,  which  baulked  and  ruined 
him ;  and  the  result,  in  a  million  experiments,  will  be  the 
same.  Every  experiment,  by  multitudes  or  by  individ- 
uals, that  has  a  sensual  and  selfish  aim,  will  fail. 


ex.  — THE  LORD  OF  BUTRAGO. 

J.  G.  LOCKHART. 

JoHM  Gibson  Lockhaht  was  a  man  of  brilliant  literary  powera.  He  wrote  "  Va- 
lerius," "  llatUiew  Wald."  *'  Adam  Blair,"  and  '*  Ranald  Daltou,"  all  noveU  ;  "  Pe- 
ter's Letters,"  a  series  of  sketches  of  Scotch  society  and  of  eminent  men  in  Scotland ; 
end  a  volume  of  translations  from  the  Spanish  ballads.  He  was  also  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  the  earlier  numbers  of  "Blackwood's  Magazine."  He  was  bom  in  Glas- 
gow, in  1792,  and  die«l  at  Abbotsford,  in  18M.  He  had  been  for  many  years  editor  of 
the  "  Quarterly  Review." 

"  "ITT^OUR  horse  is  faint,  my  king,  —  my  lord  !  your  gallant 

JL       horse  is  sick,  — 
His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his  eye  the  film  is 

thick ; 
Mount,  mount  on  mine,  oh,  mount  apace,  I  pray  thee,  mount 

and  fly! 
Ui  in  my  arms  I  '11  lift  your  grace,  —  their  trampling  hoofs  are 

nigh ! 

"  My  king, —  my  king !  you  're  wounded  sore,  —  the  blood  runs 

firom  your  feet ; 
But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I  '11  lift  you  to  your  seat : 
Mount,  Juan,  for  they  gather  fast !  I  hear  their  coming  cry,  — 
Mount,  mount,  and  ride  for  jeopardy,  —  I  *11  save  you  though 

I  die  I 

"  Stand,  noble  steed  !  this  hour  of  need,  —  be  gentle  as  a  lamb  : 
I  '11  kiss  the  foam  from  off  thy  mouth,  —  thy  master  dear  I 
am,  — 


434  ^THE  SIXTH  HEADER. 

Mount,  Juan,  mount !  whate'er  betide,  away  the  britllt;  lling, 
And  plunge  the  rowela  in  his  side ;  —  my  horse  shall  save  my 
king! 

"  Nay,  never  speak ;  my  sixes,  lord  king,  received  their  land 

from  yours. 
And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it  thine  secures  : 
If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  king,  be  found  among  the  dea«l, 
How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn  on  my  gray 

headt 

"  Castile's  proud  dames  shall  never  point  the  finger  of  disdain, 
And  say  there  's  one  that  ran  away  when  our  good  lords  were 

slain !  — 
I  leave  Diego  in  your  care,  — •  you  '11  fill  his  father^s  jilace  : 
Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare,  —  God's  blessing  on 

your  grace ! " 

So  spake  the  brave  Montaflez,  Butrago's  lord  vms  ho ; 
And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfastness  and  glee ; 
He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came  down  the  hill  — 
He  died,  God  wot !  but  not  before  his  sword  had  drunk  it: 
fill 


CXL  — MILTON  ON   HIS  BLINDNESS. 

EUZABETH  LLOTD. 

I  AM  old  and  blind  ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God*s  frown  : 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind. 
Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 


I  am  weak,  yet  strong  : 

I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see ; 


MILTON  ON  mS  BLINDNESS.  435 

Poor,  olil,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 
Father  Supreme,  to  thee. 

0  merciful  One ! 

When  men  are  farthest,  then  art  thou  most  near ; 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weakness  to  shun, 
Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 

Is  leaning  toward  me,  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place,  — 
And  there  is  no  more  night 

On  bended  knee 

1  recognized  thy  purpose,  clearly  shown  ; 
My  vision  thou  hast  dimmed,  that  I  may  see 
Tliyself,  thyself  alone. 

I  have  naught  to  fear ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing; 
Hencath  it  1  am  almost  sacred,  —  here 
Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

O  I  seem  to  stand 

Trembling !  where  foot  of  mortal  ne*er  hath  been, 
Wrapped  in  the  radiance  from  thy  sinless  land, 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go  ; 

Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng  ; 

Fn)m  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now, 

^V'hen  Heaven  is  opening  on  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  airs  from  Paradise  refresh  my  brow,  — 
Hiat  earth  in  darkness  lies. 


436  TJU-:  >L\rji  ulaukil 


CXIL  — NATIONAL   ix.ir>H(;E. 

THEODORE  PARKER. 

TBSODOiut  Pakkek,  an  American  cleygyman  and  reformer,  was  bom  in  Lexington, 
Massachuaetts.  August  24,  1810;  and  died  at  Florence,  Italy,  May  10.  I860.  He 
studied  theology  at  the  Divinity  School  in  Cambridge,  and  waa  settled  over  the 
Unitarian  Society  in  West  Rozbory.  In  1846  he  waa  settled  over  a  congregation  in 
Doston.  Here  he  preached,  in  the  Mnsic  Hall,  every  Sunday,  to  immense  audimcea. 
He  became  early  known  for  his  eneiietk  denial  of  many  of  the  doctrines  regarded  as 
vital  by  a  majority  of  Chriatiaiia,  whib  1m  maintained  with  great  power  those  which 
he  regarded  aa  vital,  such  as  the  extstence  of  a  personal  Ood.  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  the  bcantf  of  a  pure  and  holy  life.  He  threw  himsrif  with  great  ardor  into 
the  social  questions  of  his  time,  and  was  la  aU  thiaga  a  aealoua  and  uncompromising 
refbnmer.  He  waa  fearless  and  aggressive,  sometimes  niOust  in  his  denunciations, 
bat  always  (kithftil  to  hia  own  eonvlctioiis  of  duty.  Be  was  one  of  the  earliest  snd 
most  fervid  of  the  opponents  o:  sUvery  in  New  En^and.  He  waa  a  fHend  of  tem- 
perance and  an  advocate  of  pence.  Notwithstanding  the  time  which  he  gave  to  these 
sul^}ects,  he  was  a  hard  stndent  of  books,  accumulated  an  immense  library,  and  was 
remarkable  for  the  wide  Tangs  of  hia  knowlelge.  Siaoe  his  death  biflgnphlcs  have 
appeared,  by  J<din  Weias  and  Octavius  B.  Fnrthin^iam. 

DO  you  know  how  empires  find  their  end  ?  Yes,  the 
great  states  eat  up  the  little :  as  with  fish,  so  with 
nations.  Ay,  but  how  do  the  great  states  come  to  an 
end?     I'y  tluir  cwn  injustice,  and  no  other  cause 

Come  with  me  into  the  Inferno  of  the  nations,  with 
sucli  |>oor  liruidance  as  my  lamp  can  lend.  Let  us  dis- 
(jinci  iiii'l  l»ring  up  the  awful  shadows  cf  ciniuics  l)uried 
Ioiil:  ago,  and  learn  a  lesson  from  the  toini>. 

Come,  old  Assyria,  with  the  Ninevitisli  finvt;  upon  thy 
emei-ald  crown.  What  laid  thee  low  '  I  fi^U  by  my 
own  injiistiir  rii.reby  Nineveh  and  Babvlnii 
witli  me  u\  the  ground."  O  queenly  Persia,  flame  oi  Uic 
nations,  wherefore  art  thou  so  fallen,  who  troddest  the 
peoplr  iin«l.  r  tlu'c,  bridgedst  the  Hellespont  with  ships, 
and  pouredst  thy  temple-wasting  millions  on  the  western 
world  ?  "  Because  I  trod  the  people  under  me,  bridged 
the  II;  11.  s[H  .lit  with  ships,  and  poui-ed  my  temple- wasting 


NATIONAL  INJUSTICE.  437 

millions  on  the  western  world.  I  fell  by  my  own  mis- 
deeils." 

Tliou  muse-like  Grecian  queen,  fairest  of  all  thy  classic 
sisterhood  of  states,  enchanting  yet  the  world  with  thy 
sweet  witchery,  speaking  in  art  and  most  seductive  song, 
why  liest  thou  there  with  beauteous  yet  dishonored  brow, 
reposing  on  thy  broken  harp  ?  "  I  scorned  the  law  of 
God  ;  banished  and  poisoned  wisest,  justest  men  ;  I  loved 
the  loveliness  of  flesh  embalmed  in  Parian  stone ;  I  loved 
the  loveliness  of  thought,  and  treasured  that  in  more  than 
Parian  speech  ;  but  the  beauty  of  justice,  the  loveliness 
of  love,  I  trod  them  down  to  earth.  Lo,  therefore  have  I 
become  as  those  barbarous  states,  —  as  one  of  them.'* 

O  manly,  majestic  Rome  !  Thy  seven-fold  mm-al  crown 
all  broken  at  thy  feet,  why  art  thou  here  ?  T  was  not 
injustice  brought  thee  low,  for  thy  great  book  of  law  is 
prefaced  with  these  words.  Justice  is  the  unchanging, 

EVERLASTING    WILL  TO    GIVE    EACH   MAN   HIS  RIGHT!      "It 

was  not  the  saint's  ideal ;  it  was  the  hypocrite's  pretence. 
I  made  iniquity  my  law.  I  trod  the  nations  under  me. 
Their  wealth  gilded  my  palaces.  Where  thou-mayst 
see  tlie  fox  and  hear  the  owl,  it  fed  my  courtiers  and  my 
courtesans.  Wicked  men  were  my  cabinet  counsellors. 
The  flatterer  breathed  his  poison  in  my  ear.  Millions  of 
l)ondmen  wet  the  soil  with  tears  and  blood.  Do  you  not 
hear  it  ciying  yet  to  God  ?  Lo,  here  have  I  my  recom- 
Ijenso,  tormented  with  such  downfalls  as  you  see ! 

"  Go  back  and  tell  the  new-born  child  who  sitteth  on  the 
AU^hanies,  laying  his  either  liand  upon  a  tributary  sea,  a 
crown  of  thirty  stars  upon  his  brow,  —  tell  him  there  are 
riglits  which  states  must  keep,  or  they  shall  suffer  wrong. 
Tell  him  there  is  a  God,  who  keeps  the  black  man  and 
the   white,  and  hurls   to  earth  the  loftiest  realm  that 


438  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

breaks  his  jiist,  eternal  law  !  Warn  the  young  empire, 
that  he  come  not  clown,  dim  and  dishonoi-ed,  to  my 
shameful  tomb !  Tell  him  that  justice  is  the  unchanging, 
everlasting  will  to  give  each  man  his  right.  I  knew  it, 
broke  it,  and  am  lost.     Bid  liim  keep  it,  and  be  safe ! " 


CXIII.  — OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

GOLJ)WIN  SMITH. 

GoLowm  Smith  wu  born  at  BMding,  EnglMd.  to  18S3.  He  wm  edacated  at 
Eton  and  at  Oxford,  at  both  of  which  institatiaiM  he  diatingoUhed  himaelf  aa  a 
acholar,  and  at  the  Utt^r  of  which,  in  18&8.  beeanae  Regiua  ProfeMor  of  Modem  Hi»- 
tory.  In  1861  he  published  an  able  work  entitled  "  Iriah  Hlatory  and  Irish  Charac> 
ter."  During  our  civil  war  be  vtelted  America,  that  he  might  stadjr  more  doeely  the 
iasnea  Inrolved.  Returning,  he  became,  at  th«  rislc  of  aocial  ostraciam,  a  champion 
of  the  American  Union,  and  did  much  to  o<Mrrect  the  wbtaken  public  sentiment  of 
EngUnd.  In  1807  he  published  "Tliree  English  Statesmen.  Pyni,  Cmmwell,  and 
Pitt"  In  the  fbUowtag  year,  having  resigned  hto  position  at  OxfonI,  lie  became  Pro- 
fessor of  Eagliah  Histoiy  at  Oomell  University.  He  is  a  thorough  student,  a  vigonHis 
thinker,  a  clear,  atrong.  terse  writer,  a  geatlemaa  of  spotieas  Integrity,  and  an  ardent 
defender  of  hooMui  rli^ts.    He  now  residea  at  Toronto. 

CROMWELL  was  a  fanatic,  and  all  fanatics  are  mor- 
ally the  worse  for  their  fanaticism :  they  set  dogma 
al»ove  virtue,  they  take  their  own  ends  for  God's  ends, 
and  their  own  enemies  for  his.  But  that  this  man's 
religion  was  sincere,  who  can  doubt? 

It  not  only  fills  his  most  private  letters,  as  w^ell  as  his 
speeches  and  despatches,  but  it  is  the  only  clew  to  his 
life.  For  it,  when  past  forty,  happy  in  his  family,  well- 
to-do  in  the  world,  he  turned  out  with  his  children  and 
exposed  his  life  to  sword  and  bullet  in  obscure  skir- 
mishes as  well  as  in  glorious  fields.  On  his  death-bed 
his  thoughts  wandered,  not,  like  those  of  Xapoleon,  among 
the  eddies  of  battle,  or  in  the  mazes  of  state-craft,  but 
among  the  religious  questions  of  his  youth.     Constant 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  430 

hypocrisy  would  have  been  fatal  to  his  decisioa  The 
double-minded  man  is  unstable  in  all  his  ways.  This 
man  was  not  unstable  in  any  of  his  ways ;  his  course  is 
as  straight  as  that  of  a  great  force  of  nature.  There  is 
something  not  only  more  than  animal,  but  more  than 
natural  in  his  courage.  If  fanatics  so  oft^n  beat  men 
of  the  world  in  council,  it  is  jmrtly  because  they  throw 
the  die  of  earthly  destiny  with  a  steady  hand,  as  thoso 
whose  great  treasure  is  not  here. 

Walking  amid  such  perils,  not  of  sword  and  bidlet 
only,  but  of  envious  factions  and  intriguing  enemies  on 
every  side,  it  was  impossible  that  Cromwell  should  not 
contract  a  wariness,  and  perhaps  more  than  a  wariness, 
of  step.  It  was  impossible  that  his  character  should  not 
in  some  measure  reflect  the  darkness  of  his  time. 

In  establishing  his  government,  he  had  to  feel  his  way 
to  sound  men's  dispositions,  to  conciliate  different  inter- 
ests ;  and  these  are  processes  not  favorable  to  simplicity 
of  mind,  still  less  favorable  to  the  appearance  of  it, 
yet  compatible  with  general  honesty  of  purpose.  As  to 
what  is  called  his  hypocritical  use  of  Scriptural  language. 
Scriptural  language  was  his  native  tongue.  In  it  ho 
spoke  to  his  wife  and  children,  as  well  as  to  his  armies 
and  his  Parliaments ;  it  burst  from  his  lips  when  he  saw 
victory  at  Dunbar ;  it  hovered  on  them  in  death,  when 
policy,  and  almost  consciousness,  was  gone. 

He  said  that  he  would  gladly  have  gone  back  to  private 
life.  It  is  incredible  that  he  should  have  formed  the  de- 
sign, perhaps  not  incredible  that  he  should  have  felt  the 
desire.  Nature,  no  doubt,  with  high  powers  gives  the 
wish  to  use  them ;  and  it  must  be  bitter  for  one  who 
knows  that  he  can  do  great  things  to  pass  away  before 
great  things  have  been  done.      But  when  great  tlnnga 


440  THE  SIXTH  READER, 

liave  beeu  done  for  a  great  end  on  an  illustrious  scene^ 
the  victor  of  Naseby,  Dunbar,  and  Worcester,  the  savior 
of  a  nation's  cause,  may  be  ready  to  welcome  the  even- 
ing hour  of  memory  and  repose,  especially  if,  like  Crom- 
well, he  has  a  heart  full  of  affection,  and  a  happy  home. 


CXIV.  — BURIAL  OF  JOHN  QUINCY  ADilMS. 

PIERPONT. 

NOT  from  the  battle-field, 
Borne  on  his  battered  shield, 
By  foes  o'ercome ; 
But  from  a  nobler  fight. 
In  the  defence  of  right, 
Clothed  with  a  conqueror's  might, 
We  hail  him  home. 

Where  slavish  minions  cower 
Before  the  tyrant's  power, 

He  bore  the  ban  ; 
And,  like  the  aged  oak 
That  braved  the  lightning's  stroke, 
When  thunders  round  it  broke. 

Stood  up,  a  man  ! 

Nay,  when  the  storm  was  loud, 
And  round  him,  like  a  cloud. 

Grew  thick  and  black  ; 
He  single-handed  strove. 
And,  like  Olympian  Jove, 
With  his  own  thunder,  drove 

The  phalanx  back. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE,  441 

No  leafy  wreath  we  twine 
Of  oak  or  Isthmian  pine, 

To  grace  hia  brow  ; 
Like  his  own  locks  of  gray, 
Such  wreatlis  would  fall  away, 
As  will  the  grateful  lay 

We  weave  him  now. 

But  Time  sliall  touch  the  page 
That  tells  how  Quincy's  sage 

Has  dared  to  live, 
But  as  ho  touches  wine, 
Or  Shakespeare's  glowing  line, 
Or  Raphael's  form  divine, 

Now  life  to  give. 

Now,  with  the  peaceful  dead 
Lay  his  more  honored  head. 

Where  dust  returns  to  dust. 
That  soul  shall  never  die 
While  God  fills  earth  and  sky. 
But  dwell  in  heaven  on  high 

Among  the  kindred  just. 


CXV.  — MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

THE  return  of  the  robin  is  commonly  announced  hy 
the  newspapers,  like  that  of  eminent  or  notorious 
l>eople  to  a  watering-place,  as  the  first  authentic  notifica- 
tion of  spring.  And  such  his  appearance  in  the  orchard 
and  garden  undonbtinlly  is.  But,  in  spite  of  his  name 
of  migratory  thrush,  he  stays  with  us  all  winter,  and  I 


442  THE  SIXTH  READER. 

liave  seen  him  when  the  thermometer  marked  fifteen 
degrees  below  zero  of  Fahrenheit,  armed  impregnably 
within,  like  Emerson's  titmouse,  and  as  cheerful  as  he. 
The  robin  has  a  bad  reputation  among  people  who  do  not 
value  themselves  less  for  being  fond  of  cherries.  There 
is,  I  admit,  a  spice  of  vidgarity  in  him,  and  his  song  is 
mther  of  the  Bloomlield  sort,  too  largely  ballasted  witli 
prose. 

His  ethics  are  of  the  Poor  Bichard  school,  and  the 
main  chance  which  calls  forth  all  liis  energy  is  altogether 
of  the  appetite.  He  never  has  those  fine  intervals  of 
lunacy  into  which  his  cousins,  the  catbird  and  the  mavis, 
are  apt  to  fall.  But  for  a'  that  and  twice  as  muckle  's  a' 
that,  I  would  not  exchange  him  for  all  the  cherries  that 
ever  came  out  of  Asia  Minor.  With  whatever  faults,  he 
has  not  wholly  forfeited  tliat  superiority  which  belongs 
to  the  children  of  nature. 

He  has  a  finer  taste  in  fruit  tlian  could  be  distilled 
from  many  successive  committees  of  the  Horticultural 
Society,  and  he  eats  with  a  relishing  gulp  not  inferior  to 
Dr.  Johnson's.  He  feels  and  freely  exercises  his  right 
of  eminent  domain.  His  is  the  earliest  mess  of  green 
peas ;  his,  all  the  mulberries  I  had  fancied  mine.  But  if 
he  get  also  the  lion's  share  of  the  raspberries,  he  is  a 
great  planter,  and  sows  those  wild  ones  in  the  woods, 
that  solace  the  pedestrians  and  give  a  momentary  calm 
even  to  the  jaded  victims  of  the  White  Hills.  He  keeps 
a  strict  eye  over  one's  fruit,  and  knows  to  a  shade  of  pur- 
ple when  your  grapes  have  cooked  long  enough  in  the 
sun. 

During  the  severe  drought  a  few  years  ago,  the  i-obins 
wholly  vanished  from  my  garden.  I  neither  saw  nor 
heard  one  for  three  weeks.     Meanwhile,  a  small  foreign 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  443 

grape-vine,  rather  sliy  of  bearing,  seemed  to  find  the 
dusty  air  congenial,  and,  dreaming  perhaps  of  its  sweet 
Argos  acwss  the  sea,  decked  itself  with  a  score  or  so  of 
fair  bunches.  I  watched  them  from  day  to  day  till  they 
should  have  secreted  sugar  enough  from  the  sunbeams, 
and  at  last  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  celebrate  my 
vintage  the  next  morning.  But  the  robins,  too,  had 
somehow  kept  note  of  them.  They  must  have  sent  out 
spies,  as  did  the  Jews  into  the  promised  land,  before  I 
was  stirring.  When  I  went  with  my  basket,  at  least  a 
dozen  of  these  winged  vintagers  bustled  out  from  among 
the  leaves,  and,  alighting  on  the  nearest  trees,  inter- 
changed some  shrill  remarks  about  me  of  a  derogatory 
nature. 

They  had  fairly  sacked  the  vine.  Not  Wellington's 
veterans  made  cleaner  work  of  a  Spanish  town ;  not  Fed- 
erals or  Confederates  were  ever  more  impartial  in  the 
confiscation  of  neutral  chickens.  I  was  keeping  my 
grapes  a  secret  to  surprise  the  fair  Fidele  with,  but  the 
robins  made  them  a  profounder  seci-et  to  her  tlian  I  had 
meant.  The  tattered  remnant  of  a  single  bunch  was  all 
my  harvest-home.  How  paltry  it  looked  at  the  bottom 
of  my  basket,  —  as  if  a  humming-bird  had  laid  her  egg 
in  an  eagle's  nest !  I  could  not  help  laughing ;  and  the 
robins  seemed  to  join  heartily  in  the  merriment  There 
was  a  native  grape-vine  close  by,  blue  with  its  less  re- 
lined  abundance,  but  my  cunning  thieves  preferred  the 
foreijm  flavor.     Could  I  tax  them  with  want  of  taste  ? 

The  robins  are  not  good  solo  singers,  but  their  chorus, 
as,  like  primitive  fire-worshippers  they  hail  the  return  of 
light  and  warmth  to  the  world,  is  unrivalled.  There  are 
a  hundred  singing  like  one.  They  are  noisy  enough  then, 
and  sing,  as  \HHits  sliould,  with   no  afterthought.     But 


444  THE  SIXTH  READEIL 

when  they  come  after  cherries  to  the  tree  near  my  win- 
dow, they  nmffle  their  voices,  and  their  faint  pip,  pip, 
pop  !  sounds  far  away  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  where 
they  know  I  shall  not  suspect  them  of  robbing  the  great 
black-walnut  of  its  bitter-rinded  store. 

They  are  feathered  Pecksniffs,  to  be  sure;  but  then 
how  brightly  their  breasts,  tliat  look  rather  shabby  in  the 
sunlight,  shine  in  a  rainy  day  against  the  dark  green  of 
the  fringe-tree !  After  they  have  pinched  and  shaken  all 
the  life  out  of  an  earth-worm,  as  Italian  cooks  pound  all 
the  spirit  out  of  a  steak,  and  then  gulped  him,  they 
stand  up  in  honest  self-confidence,  expand  their  red 
waistcoats  with  the  virtuous  air  of  a  lobby-member,  and 
outface  you  with  an  eye  that  calmly  challenges  inquiry. 
"Do  I  look  like  a  bird  that  knows  the  flavor  of  raw 
vermin  ?  I  throw  myself  upon  a  jury  of  my  peers.  Ask 
any  robin  if  he  ever  ate  anything  less  ascetic  than  the 
frugal  berry  of  the  juniper,  and  he  will  answer  that  liis 
vow  forbids  him."  Can  such  an  open  bosom  cover  such 
depravity  ?  Alas !  yes.  I  have  no  doubt  his  breast  was 
redder  at  that  very  moment  with  the  blood  of  my  rasp- 
berries. On  the  whole,  he  is  a  doubtful  friend  in  the 
garden.  He  makes  his  dessert  of  all  kinds  of  berries, 
and  is  not  averse  from  early  peas.  But  when  we  remem- 
ber how  omnivorous  he  is,  eating  his  own  weight  in  an 
incredibly  short  time,  and  that  Natui-e  seems  exliaustless 
in  her  invention  of  new  insects  hostile  to  vegetation,  per- 
haps we  may  reckon  that  he  does  more  good  than  harm. 
For  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  have  his  cheerfulness 
and  kind  neighborhood  than  many  berries. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Wehh,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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